Eye of the Storm
by dapperdactyl
Summary: As the pain began to fade, Hawke felt herself slip into that familiar cool embrace; she relaxed. She let go of all of her cares, her fears, her painful memories, and with a final sigh she came to the conclusion that dieing wasn't so bad. - f!HawkexFenris
1. Dieing Isn't so Bad

1

The rain fell relentlessly from the night sky in enormous drops, exploding on impact with the ground like grenades. The terrain, which normally would have been rolling emerald hills speckled in colorful patches of wild flowers and teeming with rabbits, had turned to boggy marshlands, oozing and squelching beneath Hawke's boots.

She staggered through the storm, arms hanging limp at her sides, hobbling on one foot, dragging the other behind her and barely able to stay upright, supported by a gnarled tree branch, trudging on without a destination just as she had done for the past three days. Her clothes were soaked straight through and clung her shivering body, stained crimson from her own blood. The wound it originated from was long, deep, inflicted by a Templar's blade, the gash followed the curvature of her ribs, all the way around to her spine, and it had begun to fester from lack of treatment and exposure to the elements.

Exhaustion held Hawke in an iron grip, threatening to pull her over the edge of consciousness, but she pressed on, well aware of the fact that if she indulged herself to the pleasure of sleep, death would find her.

She desperately wished she had not left her staff at camp when the Templars came, when she had been forced to run. If she had thought to grab it, she might have been able to use it as a walking stick, to ease her journey… really, if she were to be granted one wish to give her an easy journey, she would have wished that the Templars had not shown up at all, that she and Fenris could have been left to a quiet life in the quaint hamlet who's name she could not remember… but then again, she wished a lot of things had not happened.

She wished her horse had not died from over exhaustion mid-gallop, and even more so she wished she had not been on top of it when the beast collapsed. The horse flipped tail over head, and though Hawke had managed to throw her hands out at the last second and break her own fall and prevent herself from smashing face first into a stony ridge, her left foot had caught in its stirrup and the weight and sheer force of the massive, tumbling body had snapped the leg like a twig.

The pain had been excruciating, and at first she could do nothing but lay where she had landed, trapped beneath nearly eight hundred pounds of dead weight. In a wave of despair, Hawke could not keep herself from sobbing uncontrollably; a meltdown in result of all the emotions she had bottled up since fleeing Kirkwall and the wrath of the Templars. For over a year she bottled up every negative thought, every urge to cry or scream in frustration, putting on a smile and her happy-go-lucky, sarcastic camouflage in order to keep her companions spirits high, and keep them from sinking into the crushing despair that lurked on the edge of their camp.

One by one, their paths caused them to part ways until Hawke suddenly found herself alone, riding a stolen horse, galloping at full speed in a direction that she hoped was west. She had never ridden a horse to death. It was a terrifying thing to feel such a powerful creature crumple like that beneath you … even worse ending up beneath it's nearly thousand pound cadaver.

It had been a terrible end to a terrible day.

She finally worked up enough courage to pull herself free from the carcass and after a few hours of crawling, managed to stand and continue her journey to nowhere. The agony walking caused her was so great that Hawke had been driven to vomit several times, despite the fact that she had not eaten for close to a week. At least she was getting the last of the poison out of her system. In a stroke of luck, under the newly developed circumstances, the rain and the exhaustion, the crushed and twisted limb had gone numb, for which she was thankful.

She wished she had not been forced to leave Fenris lying in his own pooling blood. Rushing to his side, helpless to do anything to help, being pulled away and put on a horse, being instructed to run and not look back. Anders promising to save Fenris, when his eyes clearly betray his words, knowing that the mage would let Fenris die. Hawke forced the image from her mind, for the thought caused her more pain than her shattered leg. Blinking back what she could not determine to be rainwater or tears, she lamented the fact that a few hours earlier she could have distracted herself from thinking about Fenris by simply focusing on the pain in her destroyed limb; but the numbness did nothing for her broken heart. It felt as if she had been gored, that there was a gaping hole where her heart should be and she was slowly bleeding out … well, bleeding out from a wound different from the wound that she was already bleeding out of. All she could do was to clutch her chest in hopes to dull the pain.

She wished she had never met Anders, that he had not decided to "remove the compromise" between the Mages and Templars of Kirkwall, that he had not fallen in love with her when he knew she could not love him back. There was a list three miles long of things she wished Anders had not done. More importantly, she wished she had not gotten involved in his struggles, friend or not wherever that man went, trouble followed.

Most of all she wished it was not raining.

Hawke allowed her mind to wander, torturing herself with thoughts of her home in Kirkwall. She would sell herself to a demon for a good meal, hot bath, and the warmth of her bed – she would even settle for the cheap wine, lumpy mattress, and drafty halls of Fenris's mansion... but only if he was there to hold her and warm her.

Her grip tightened on her chest, someone was twisting a knife in her wounds, and she released a shuttered breath. Hawke told herself it was from the cold, she was soaked straight through to her bones and would probably die of hypothermia, it was nothing. She had shed too many tears over things she could not change. Haunting childhood memories, the blight, her mother and father, Bethany, Anders…Fenris…

Hawke could feel her nails piercing the palm of her hand through the fabric of the thin gray prisoner's dress she still wore.

She would _not_ allow herself to cry.

She was unbearably thirsty, but she knew this was a thirst that no amount of water could quench. It was a thirst in her veins, aching for the familiar pulse of her magic. How had she lost it again? Hawke's brain was only running at about twenty percent, making thinking and concentrating nearly impossible. She was almost sure that she had not been made tranquil… she _hoped_ she had not been made tranquil. All she knew was that something about this agonizingly relentless thirst was responsible for the loss of her magic. Any other mage would have been praising the Maker for the chance to be normal… but without her magic, she just felt empty inside.

Hawke suddenly found that her legs no longer worked, it made sense that the left one would give out but her right knee buckled and she collapsed, falling to her knees.

She attempted to stand, but her legs would not cooperate.

"Get up," She told herself, attempting again to stand, "Get. Up."

Again her body disobeyed, this time, the rest of her anatomy failing, causing her to fall to her hands.

"OLIVIA HAWKE, GET ON YOUR FUCKING FEET!" She screamed at herself.

Nothing.

She permitted a single sob to escape her lips, then, defeated, allowed herself to collapse.

Lying on her back, Hawke looked up into the pitch-black sky, the rain splattered against her face and ran into her eyes. Everyone she loved was either dead or had abandoned her… even the damn dog. How had it come to this? Everything had been fine until Anders showed up again. Why couldn't he just leave her be? Why couldn't the _Maker_ just leave her be? Why was she destined to be unhappy no matter what choice she made?

Whether it was rain or tears, her eyes were overflowing, causing her vision to blur and darken. Her body suddenly felt enormously heavy and to move even her smallest finger was a task too difficult for the level of exhaustion she was experiencing.

With a start, Hawke came to realize that she was slipping away. All her childhood fears of death came back to her in a flood of memories and emotion. She tried to decide if she had been just enough to be allowed to stay at the Maker's side, but then she started to think about all the people she had killed and failed to protect her lifetime. All of the mistakes she'd made and people she'd hurt. All of the selfish things she had done and darkness she had dabbled in. Hawke was quite sure that allowing your family to die, having copious amounts of premarital sex, killing hundreds of people, cheating and lying to get what you want, purposely trying to get a member of the Chantry hot and bothered for shits and giggles, and using Andraste's name in vain as often as she did would definitely keep her away from the glorious pearly white after life. It was slightly relieving to find that she didn't actually care about any of that.

Under the circumstances, the Maker could go fuck himself.

As the pain began to fade, Hawke felt herself slip into that familiar cool embrace; she relaxed. She let go of all of her cares, her fears, her painful memories, and with a final sigh she came to the conclusion that dieing wasn't so bad

At least she wouldn't be lonely anymore.


	2. Job Opportunity

2

Hawke sat on the stoop outside of Gamlen's "house", sharpening the long, curved blade of her cutlass. The low harsh light of the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the sickly beige city around her, ugly yet a relief from the stifling heat that came hand in hand with Kirkwall summers.

Carver had managed to pick a fight with their uncle, yet again, and the screaming match of the Age was taking place inside whilst her mother attempted to referee. Sighing loudly, the dark haired beauty started to hum an old lullaby to herself, a quiet attempt to block out her relatives. Hawke couldn't take much more of living like this. She had taken part in these fights within the first few months of living in Kirkwall, playing the role of "Head of the Family", attempting to feel the misplaced urge to defend her family… rather, what was _left_ of her family. She soon came to realize, however, that trying to reason with Gamlen was just the same as trying to reason with a brick wall. It was completely and utterly pointless. She didn't feel the need to protect any of them from Gamlen's accusations because half of the time she _agreed_ with him. Yes, Carver _was_ a spoiled, annoying little tit, and yes Leandra was expecting too much when she assumed Kirkwall would welcome the estranged Amell daughter back with open arms.

These days when the tension in the air was virtually tangible; when tempers, and _voices_, began to rise, Hawke excused herself to the haven of the fresh open air of Lowtown.

With a disgusted snort, she noted never to use the words "haven" and "Lowtown" together again.

The statement alone made Hawke roll her eyes. There was nothing fresh about Lowtown's air, on a good day the ocean breeze might make it far enough from the docks to grace the residents of this ghetto by blowing the stench of the sewers away. _That_ was the closest thing Kirkwall ever got to "fresh open air". Hawke hated the city, too many people crammed in too close together making too much noise.

It wasn't fair that their mother subjected them to the soul crushing prison that was Kirkwall. There were so many other places they could have gone, Gwaren, Honnleath, Redcliffe, Denerim… why they even left Ferelden in the first was place was beyond Hawke's capacity for abstract thought… besides the whole… Blight thing…

A familiar tickle in her bones forced Hawke to stop what she was doing and place her hands firmly onto her knees. It was an irritating itch that would start at her fingertips, move up her arms and into her chest, finally climaxing by burning her chest and lungs, as if she had drawn in too much air. She started to take deep breaths and count slowly to 10.

_1…2_

She was restless. There was little enough room for one in the hovel Gamlen called home, the idea of fitting a middle aged women, her two grown children, and their _Mabari_ was ludicrous.

…_3…4…5_

Hawke forced her mind off of the claustrophia, suddenly remembering that her mother had asked her to buy thread and needles in the market. She, _of course_, had forgotten, and her mother, in her passive aggressive manner, had pretended not to notice.

…_6…7…_

Yes, she was the eldest and always finding excuses to get out and about, so it was not an enormous burden to be asked to run an errand, but it still annoyed Hawke that her mother always tasked her with such trivial things_. "Find me jade green thread with gold filigree interwoven"_, and if it was not perfect, Leandra would pout for the rest of the day, as if Hawke had purposely purchased the wrong string.

…_8… _

Angrily, Hawke forced herself to think of her father so not to spoil the day's mood. All she managed to do was remind herself of her father's last request to take care of the family. Not how or for how long, just _"be a good girl, take care you're your mother and siblings…" _Her father had always had the talent of being impossibly cryptic at the worst moments.

_...8…_

All Hawke wanted with her life was to get away from her family and strike out on her own, to live her own life, it wasn't fair of her father to dump such enormous responsibility into her lap. What, was she supposed to set aside all of her dreams and future plans just because _he_ decided to go and get himself killed? How was that fair?

…_8…9…_

Her chest burned like a thousand needles had penetrated her unwashed skin. She knew this feeling, and she also knew that in Ferelden when she had these episodes she could take a soak in a warm tub and instantly feel better; it had been almost a month since she had gotten the chance to bathe.

…_6, 7, 8… 9…_

How hard was it to find a bathtub and clean water? If farmers in Ferelden could do it, why couldn't Gamlen?

…_9…_

With an exasperated grunt, Hawke gave up trying to calm herself and got to her feet. She needed to take a walk; and maybe get a drink.

Squeezing the door handle, she twisted and pushed it open, briefly sticking her head in and shouting over the chaos that ensued inside,

"Going to the Hanged Man!"

Her mother turned and smiled, "Alright dear, have a nice time,"

Even after closing the door, heading down the steps and turning down the street in the direction of the tavern, Hawke's mind lingered on her mother's face. She would never understand how the woman could stay so cheerful after all the hardships they had endured. What with the death of their paterfamilias, Malcolm Hawke, the chaos that followed the destruction of Lothering and their harrowing escape to the Free Marches, one would be forgiving if Leandra had become even the slightest shred of bitter, one would even go as far as to expect it. Sure, Leandra was bitter, but disgustingly sweet composure that she hid it behind was bad camouflage for such strong feelings. Hawke knew that her mother loved her, but she couldn't help but feel that love was being smothered under layers and layers of sedimentary contempt.

Of course there was the period of three or four weeks in which she blamed Hawke for Bethany's untimely death, in that month Hawke was quite positive that Leandra hated her, but her mother had a way of holding short grudges and then out of the blue pretending like nothing had ever happened. This was a dangerous habit, for the hatred always stayed burrowed deep inside her mother and at anytime, Leandra could dig deep into her hate reserves, find something particularly hurtful and crush the heart and soul of anyone who managed to get on her bad side. Hawke knew this for a fact, as she had inherited this trait.

She had been careful to tip toe around Leandra as of late, avoiding conflict and extended contact altogether, for she had been clashing with her mother for years now and knew that she had incredibly powerful "weapons" to use against her daughter.

The two women had always seemed to have something to fight about back in their Ferelden days, from Hawke's decision to take up swordplay instead of cooking and knitting, her choice in male companions, to her embarrassing public meltdown in which Hawke took a knife to her long ebony curtain of hair and butchered it in the middle of town because her last lover had accused her of being "disgustingly masculine".

This incident had been the topic of the majority of their fights. Leandra had been terribly proud of her daughter's hair. It was thick, long, and beautiful, something to behold in the sunlight and the envy of Ferelden mothers everywhere. The rebellious act of cutting it away over something so trivial as a bad breakup, and then her daughter's lack of care for the shaggy mess was almost too much for the woman to bear. Leandra had taken the action personally, a direct affront to her person, and she had made her eldest suffer for it.

True, Hawke was quite fond of her short hair, she felt it made her look edgy and dangerous, but in her darker, angsty moments, she mourned the loss of her "beauty". In her mind, she had given in to her former lover's accusations by acting on such an insane impulse. She'd always told herself that it had been for herself, she'd needed a change in her life… that was all, but in a way it _had_ been rebellion against her mother. It was the one thing that Hawke thought she could control, the one thing that she help power over.

These days, however, Leandra was not to be trifled with. At any moment she could completely crush her eldest daughter's heart, soul, and being by bringing up what had happened during their escape from Ferelden. She could bring up Bethany and the fact that Hawke had failed to protect her, that she had inadvertently caused the death of her beloved younger sister. That failure was so devastating, it almost destroyed Hawke. In darker times, she would take to bed for days in mourning, leaving Carver to carry out all the jobs they did for Athenril, the elven smuggler who paid for the family's entrance into Kirkwall. Carver was ecstatic that for the moment, he was the star child, supporting the family and shining as a beacon of hope while the favorite lay in a crumpled heap, withering away beneath the blankets and their mother's blame and accusations.

His moment didn't last long.

Because Hawke was still the favorite, her mother grew frantic about her daughter's new self-destructive tendencies.

Hawke starved herself, literally and metaphorically; refusing anything that might bring any hint of pleasure or happiness to her being, including food, drink, and companionship; she wouldn't talk to anyone. She took up the most dangerous jobs she could find, throwing herself into any opportunity for battle just to test her own mortality, all the while growing weaker due to lack of sustenance.

These acts of self-loathing ended several months later, only when Carver held his now 90 pound elder sister down and forced to eat. He was wounded by the idea that no matter what they did, no matter how hard they tried, they would never live up to Bethany's memory, and he would never be as important as _Hawke_ was in their mother's eyes, but then again, he wasn't going to sit by and watch while his only remaining sibling killed herself.

It had been a little over a year and a half, and Hawke was finally starting to heal, she was eating regularly, smiling, joking, and laughing like her old self again. She became fast friends with a charming dwarf, a pirate wench with little to no morals, a former Gray Warden of Ferelden, and a Dalish elf; spending less and less time with her family. Hawke, it seemed, was finally happy again.

She lived, however, in mortal terror; knowing that if her mother still held that venom in her heart, if she truly wanted to hurt her daughter, she would bring up that failure; reopening a wound like that would cripple Hawke forever.

Bethany had been her sister's soul mate. Hawke felt that she could tell her anything, including the shameful details of the loss of her virginity.

More importantly, she had been the only one who liked Hawke's short hair right off the bat and the one to originally suggest that it made her look dangerous. She wanted immediately to cut her hair off as well, but just the thought of two rebellious daughters sent Leandra into a conniption. For the sake of their mother's sanity, Hawke talked her out of it.

Short hair just wasn't Bethany's style. She was a hopeless romantic who wanted nothing more than to fall in love, get married, and have babies. She wouldn't have understood that longhaired girls are safe, while shorthaired women are a risk. Men don't want to fall in love with dangerous women, they want to live out their wildest, most depraved fantasies with them and then live in shame about it for the remainder of their lives.

Longhaired girls make wives; shorthaired girls make fuck buddies. It was just the way things were, Hawke had been forced to accept that because of her actions, she would have to give up her romantic dreams of love and marriage. Men saw her as a dangerous plaything, they didn't want a relationship with her, and though she had once had dreams romance, she was no longer interested in being tied down. The thought of having a man in her life made Hawke claustrophobic; a relationship was a partnership, meaning one shares their life in entirety with their significant other, and if Hawke needed one thing to survive in Kirkwall, it was her freedom to come and go as she pleased. To have the option to spend the whole night in the Hanged Man exchanging stories with Varric or drinking with Isabela, waste the day pouring over old scrolls and learning about Dalish history with Merrill, hiking up Sundermount to find ingredients for Anders' potions and spells.

Hawke was positive that there was not a man in all of Thedas that would understand her need for freedom.

* * *

><p>The Hanged Man was loud, dirty, and rank with the stench of liquor, urine, and bodily fluids… as usual.<p>

Anders, in need of a distraction from the depressing slums of Darktown, _and_ to stay under the radar of an ongoing Templar investigation that was getting much to close to his clinic for comfort, had slipped into the Hanged Man early in the day and remained there for the better part of it. Against his better judgment, he had agreed to a game of Wicked Grace with Varric and much to his dismay, Isabela staggered out of one of the back rooms, no doubt having recovered from a night of drinking and fornication, only to sit down at their table and join their game.

He was no good at cards and he knew it, yet why he always agreed to play was beyond his capacity for understanding. Perhaps it was Varric's charming nature. He had always had a weakness for men with strong chins and chest hair, but lately his attentions had been turned on another person. Short ebony hair, snow-white skin, piercing blue eyes, soft pouting lips, a perfect hourglass figure…

With a sudden shock, Anders was wrenched from his musings as he noticed how terrible his cards were, and how much coin had been put into the proverbial pot.

"Fold," He muttered sheepishly, quickly putting his cards down on the table after seeing the ghost of a smile and excitement flash across Varric's face.

Anders had little coin to begin with, and at this rate he would be significantly poorer by the end of the night. He would have to remind himself that he ran a free clinic, in _Darktown_ of all places and money was quite hard to come by, the next time he was invited to play cards.

"Just you and me now, Tethras," Isabela purred, she pursed her lips and leaning forward in an effort to distract the dwarf from his cards with her bosom,

"Not for long," Varric retorted with a smile,

The two stared each other down, waiting for a hint, a flash of the eyes, a twitch of the mouth, the faintest tell, anything to give away their hand. After a brief moment of intensity, they turned their cards over in unison. There was a moment of complete silence, the whole tavern seemed to go still, and then the string of curses spewing from Isabela's mouth gave way to which of the two the winner of the round had been, that and Varric's gloating grin as he pulled the small mountain of coin to his end of the table,

"Better luck next time, Rivaini."

"Piss off," She snarled, taking a swig from her tankard,

"How about it Blondie, want another try to win back your coin?"

Anders gave a weak smile and shrugged feathery pauldroned shoulders,

"Actually, I think I should quit while I'm ahead, I'd like to be able to feed myself this week,"

His mind went to the three coins left in his pocket, and to his dismay he realized that he would have to close the clinic again tomorrow so that he could find work. Perhaps Solitivus's shop needed restocking. Then again, that was in the Gallows, which he preferred to stay far away from.

"Isabela?"

She slammed the tankard down on the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand,

"Afraid I'm tapped out, thanks for buying drinks though,"

Her grin was met by Varric's glare. The dwarf had not mentioned anything about putting her drinks on his infamous tab, but Isabela was probably well aware of that. She often joined games with coin enough for only the smallest bet she could manage, which drove the dwarf mad, due to the fact that Isabela enjoyed several drinks while she played, intending for all of them to go on the tab,

"I'll take care of that," A new voice chimed in,

Anders' heart skipped a beat as Hawke reached past him, putting one hand on his shoulder for support, and placing three sovereigns on the table.

"Love you," Isabela sang without even glancing up at her,

"How about it Hawke?" Varric said, raising the deck of cards in proposition,

Hawke sat between Anders and Isabela, putting her worn boots up on the table and lounging comfortably in the large wooden chair. Anders would never understand how the woman could look so cool, collected, and comfortable wherever she was, no matter the situation; it was a trait he admired greatly about Hawke...though that was one on laundry list of things he enjoyed about her.

She rolled her eyes and scoffed,

"You know I'm shit at cards, Varric. Besides, _that's_ all the coin I've got,"

A heavy silence fell over the table. The somber air was thick with the angst that plagued their minds with one thought, day after day, _"Maker, I need to make some coin,"_

Hawke turned her icy gaze on Anders, seemingly free from such thoughts, and nudged his arm with her foot.

"Taking the day off are we?"

The mage shrugged, "Had to close up shop early,"

"Templars again?"

The layers of thick sarcasm hid most of it, but Anders thought he could detect real concern in her voice. She, out of everyone in their ragtag group of friends, did the most to support his cause and fight the oppression of mages in Kirkwall. Though he was grateful for every moment she took time to spend with him, he found this strange; from her skill with a blade and discipline, he would have taken her for a supporter of the Templars, but Hawke had made it very clear that she held no love for Knight-Commander Meredith and her stooges.

"Just one, a man named Emeric,"

Hawke raised a single thin eyebrow, "Right, he's the one investigating the murders of those women,"

"He's been getting much to close to the clinic for comfort, I thought it best to play it safe," After a moment, he added, "Besides, I think I deserve the day off,"

She smiled and Anders felt himself go weak, "Maker no! How will the refugees go on without their almighty healer?"

"People will just have to refrain from getting sick or wounded for the day,"

Hawke giggled and reached for Isabela's drink. The pirate in turn smacked away her hand,

"Get your own, skank,"

"Bitch." She replied rubbing her "injured" hand,

"I love you,"

Hawke glared and leaned away from Isabela in distaste for the response,

"You can't just say that and have things be automatically perfect again,"

"Oh yes I can, especially if I sprinkle some sugar on top,"

As if to put her point across, Isabela took Hawke by the head, pulled her close and planted kiss on her cheek.

"I _fucking_ love you," She purred,

"Yeah, yeah, love you too,"

Anders averted his gaze. It was common knowledge in their group of friends that after assisting in a midnight duel gone awry, Isabela and Hawke had quickly become the best of friends. They swore up and down that they were soul mates, so things like holding hands and innocent kisses on the cheek or forehead did not come across as strange to either of them, but Anders couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. Hawke saw it nothing more than Isabela being almost a sister to her; not a replacement but a companionship she had needed to help her heal after the loss of her _real_ sister. He, however, knew the pirate wouldn't mind stripping down and indulging herself in a night of steamy girl on girl passion with her younger friend.

Why couldn't he be as intimate with Hawke as Isabela? Would it be so wrong to exchange a friendly kiss in greeting? Anders would not deny that he was quite smitten with Hawke; it had been almost instantaneous from the day he met her.

He had been taken back by her looks the moment she walked into his clinic, but what really buried to arrow deep was how fierce she became when cornered by the Templars that ambushed them in the Chantry, how sad she had been about Karl's Tranquility, and how caring she had been afterwards. That night had been strange for Anders. He knew he should have been mourning the loss of a former lover in Karl, but he could not for the life of him drive Hawke from his mind.

She was quick-witted, beautiful, and sharp as a knife; she was easy going, able to lift the tension from a room and make light of any situation that was quickly getting too heavy… not to mention an exciting feeling of danger haunted her presence. He couldn't quite place why she felt so dangerous, but Anders had narrowed it down to her mysterious demeanor and her boyish haircut. Not to mention that she was excellent at hiding what she was thinking and feeling.

Hawke was guarded, hiding a secret behind her armor, perhaps an old wound, a painful memory that had shaped her very being. He wanted to strip her of her armor, metaphorically and, he would admit, literally, and see Hawke for who she truly was.

"So!" Hawke started, wrenching Anders from his thoughts and back to reality.

He could feel himself start to blush from the shameful thoughts that had passed through his mind and stirred his hormones. He hoped to Andraste that Isabela wouldn't notice.

"I suppose you're wondering why I gathered you all here today,"

"Hilarious," Varric replied,

"It's no secret, dear friends, that we are all lacking funds; "strapped for cash" as the kids say these days,"

"_Really_, is that what kids say these days?"

Hawke ignored her hecklers and continued without missing a beat,

"I happen to have information that a dwarven merchant named Anso, conveniently located in Lowtown, will pay handsomely for the retrieval of stolen goods,"

Varric leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his woolen chest; there was a familiar glint in his eye, one that appeared when the chance for profit was offered to him.

"What exactly is the monetary definition of _handsomely_?"

"A shit ton," Anders replied quickly so to include himself in the conversation and make clear that he wanted in on the job,

"Which, turns out, is exactly two butt-loads," Isabela added with a giggle,

"You're all hysterical," Hawke rolled her eyes, "The note says _"inquire within"_, which I assume means we have to go see him. The letter came with a map and instructions to come after dark."

Varric took up his tankard and raised it in toast,

"Well, sounds suspicious enough for me, how about we 'inquire within' as the kids say these days,"

Anders and the rest took up their drinks and in one fluid movement smashed them together in agreement and guzzled down the dregs of their ale; it wasn't until then that Anders noticed his was empty, being forced to sit awkwardly while everyone else toasted what they hoped would be victory.


	3. Bait and Switch

3

The chest was empty.

"Fuck." Hawke snarled through gritted teeth, slamming the chest shut.

It had been a long shot in the first place, but Hawke had agreed to the job without even consulting her companions. Lyrium scared the hell out of her. It's instantly addictive properties were enough to ruin a life, but lyrium withdrawal could very easily kill a person. However, the absence of lyrium would make for very moody Templars, acting without thinking and doing things they may or may not regret later, this was something that she would prefer to avoid; the thought of angry Templars stalking the already dangerous streets of Kirkwall made her skin crawl.

"I suppose we should inform Anso," Anders said shakily. It was obvious that he shared the same thoughts as Hawke.

Angry Templars would not be good for _anyone_, him especially, she felt very strongly that she needed to do everything in her power to keep the Templars away from Anders, she should at least try and protect _someone_ from them.

Isabela gave a weighty sigh and leaned against the blood-splattered wall of the shabby Alienage hovel that Anso's directions had led them to.

"Guess this means we're not getting paid," Varric muttered angrily kicking at the boot of a mercenary who had been unlucky enough to receive one of Bianca's bolt embedded deep into his skull.

The pirate shrugged,

"We could always loot the bodies," The pirate added,

"Right, because everyone knows that Lowtown mercenaries are loaded,"

Hawke did her best to ignore her bickering companions as she stooped and began to rifle through the pockets of the nearest body. She was not surprised to find that all that the bodies contained were a handful of coin, when all of the money was pooled together, copious amounts of lint, and a pouch of pebbles.

"All of this _fun_ for nothing…" She sighed, "Alright, lets go tell the dwarf."

Hawke took exceedingly more caution exiting the building than she had entering it. She was not the best at locating booby traps and her gung-ho attitude towards missions often led to her…well… boobying directly into them, the scorched walls of the entrance hall illustrated that quite beautifully.

If Anders had not been quick to act, casting a protective barrier around them in a matter of milliseconds, they would all be barbequed corpses piled in the doorway. Hawke came to realize that if not for the mage's quick thinking, she would have been dead from traps many times over, long ago. She would have to find the time to thank him somehow… perhaps a gift, she tried to recall whether he had ever mentioned being particularly fond of anything.

The cool night air would have been soothing on their singed skin, had they not exited the hovel only to be met by an impressive gang of armored slavers, none of which looked happy to see Hawke and her companions,

"Um?" Hawke started, bewildered and uneasy.

"That's not the elf!" A middle-aged woman shouted, shouldering her way through the crowd,

"Keen grasp of the obvious you have there," Anders retorted,

Hawke saw the grip he held on his staff tighten, his preparation for yet another battle made her all the more anxious. They were badly outnumbered, and though all were impressive fighters made that much stronger when together, she knew no one would make it out of a battle like this unscathed; perhaps she could talk their way out of this situation, or better yet, maybe_ Varric_ could work his silver tongue.

"It doesn't matter!" Another of the gang continued, he drew his blade and readied himself for combat, "We were told to kill whoever enters the house,"

"Well that's a shame," Isabela sighed, allowing no air to breach the conversation; she reached into the pouch slung at her side and withdrew a glass flask filled with colorful miasmic liquid.

The rogue hurled it into the crowd; the glass hit dead center and exploded in a cloud of thick, sickly sweet smelling smoke. As swiftly as it had appeared, Isabela _disappeared_ into the smoke.

Anders and Varric moved to a strategic distance and joined the battle, leaving their leader standing in the doorframe of the Alienage hovel.

Hawke unsheathed her blade and drew back, poised to strike as one of the men rushed blindly forward. His form was atrocious, sword held high over his head, shield, obviously too heavy for him, held at his thighs. The man's worn leather armor would provide little protection; the tears streaming from his burning eyes would prevent him from seeing her coming.

Hawke thrust forward as the man came within range, slicing the ties that held his chest plate in place, and spinning the blade once over she stabbed backwards straight through his spine as he passed her. She lunged into battle, hacking and slashing at everything that came within range. A blade to the throat, a hilt to the head, she tore through her enemies, striking them down before they had a chance to react. In the heat of battle, Hawke felt that familiar tickle in her bones. She longed to tap into the recesses of power withheld from her, but she knew better. This was not the time. Not now, not ever.

A crossbow bolt whisked past her face, cutting deep into the bridge of Hawke's nose and left cheek, and straight between the eyes of a man who intended to cleave Hawke's skull in two.

"Varric!" She cried angrily,

"You're welcome!"

Isabela appeared at Hawke's side and seized her by the wrist.

"Duck,"

"What?"

The rogue pulled her friend so that she was bent over backwards; Hawke's blade penetrated the belly of a man behind Isabela, who in turn had hurled one of her daggers into the chest of a woman swinging an axe where Hawke's head had been seconds before.

"I said, _duck_,"

Isabela released Hawke, who suddenly found herself off balance, the only way to keep from falling was to throw back her hands and bring her legs up and over her head, up-righting herself in a back-hand spring.

However, all she managed to do was stumble backwards into a man, who brought his blade across her chest and up to her throat,

"You're a pretty one!" He snarled, running his tongue along the ridge of her ear,

Hawke shuttered and felt herself grow physically sick, gagging as the foul stench of his rotting teeth filled her nostrils.

"Ugh, in your dreams,"

He suddenly convulsed and released a cry of pain, right into Hawke's ear much to her dismay, yet she was freed and the man fell face down into the dirt, his back blackened and burned from a bolt of lightning.

She glanced backwards to Anders and smirked in thanks,

"Graceful," He shouted,

"Indeed,"

It was the second time he'd saved her life that night; she made note to invite Anders on jobs with her more often. Her life threatening gung-ho tendencies may cease to rear their ugly heads as often with him at her side.

The battle ended as quickly as it had begun. Isabela and Hawke stood amongst dozens of mangled bodies, spattered in blood from head to toe and struggling to catch their breath. Hawke tore a strip of clothing from one of the nearest bodies and used it to wipe her bloodied blade before sheathing it, then licked her fingers and began to scrub the blood from her face. She winced as her fingers brushed over the wound stretching across her nose, which now stung like crazy. Varric strolled up to the women, looking positively pleased with himself, for not a drop of blood had found his person to soil his expensive clothing.

"Well, I'd say that was a job well done,"

"Oh yeah, that was bloody brilliant, tell me something Varric were you aiming for me or was it just a happy accident?" Hawke demanded, gesturing to the cut on the bridge of her nose that was now oozing blood down to her mouth.

The dwarf put his hands up in defense, keeping his carefree grin plastered across his face,

"Calm down Hawke, it's just a scratch,"

Anders took Hawke's pouting head in his hands, tilting it left and right to examine the wound, he drew a handkerchief and small jar of red ointment from his pocket and wiped the blood away from her sullen face.

"This is definitely going to leave a scar," He remarked, spreading the cool crimson salve across the wound. "But you should be fine,"

Hawke scoffed,

"Sure, if you count being physically deformed as fine,"

Isabela and Varric couldn't help but laugh,

"Well, at least it will give some character to that perfect face of yours," Isabela purred.

Once they had looted the bodies, their ragtag group had found themselves only a few sovereigns richer. They angrily stalked towards the stairs leading to Lowtown; this job had hardly paid handsomely and _someone_ was going compensate them, one way or another.

* * *

><p>Anders's heart still beat wildly from the battle, or perhaps it was from the close proximity he had just shared with Hawke. He couldn't help but wonder how she would have reacted if he had indulged his urge to "kiss it better". Her mood had been ruined, obvious by the way she hunched her shoulders and kicked her feet as she walked, but Anders rather enjoyed the woman's spontaneous mood swings. The way her icy eyes would darken and take on a bestial glint, or how she would purse her voluptuous lips and take to biting the lower of the two. Though <em>normally<em> sarcastic and wise cracking, when she was angry this habit would intensify; her tone would turn harsh, and she would become altogether fiercer. Hawke was a predator living in the guise of a woman; the red balm the healer had spread on her face to keep the wound from getting infected along with her cold eyes and shaggy obsidian locks gave her a feral look, like war paint or the blood of a foe brandished in violent defiance. It was driving Anders mad.

_Stop this foolishness!_ A voice in his head demanded, _you waste your life with such thoughts. _

Justice did not approve of Anders' lust, then again, the spirit did not approve of anything that brought the healer happiness.

They had not even reached the first step when a man with a particularly bad bowl-cut dressed in the tattered silver armor of a slaver rounded the corner and stepped in Hawke's path,

"I don't know who you are, friend, but you've made a serious mistake coming here," He hissed,

It was strange, almost as if he were trying to sound menacing, yet Hawke's ferocious demeanor was intimidating the man to the point of pissing his pants. Anders could picture her glowering at the man with feral eyes and bearing her fangs, releasing a low snarl in warning, and when he didn't back down, she would pounce and tear the mans throat out with her teeth for daring to block her way, only to retreat to the clinic licking the blood from her lips. This is where she would tear off her clothes, offer herself to Anders and beg him to ravish her.

_What a strange fantasy, _Justice mused, _she possess no feline qualities, and yet you continue to allowed such thoughts to plague your mind; could it possibly have something to do with you fondness of cats?_

"Shut up, Justice." Anders muttered under his breath,

"Oh look," Hawke snarled, "Someone else who wants to die."

The man drew himself up to appear larger than he was, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Anders felt excitement bloom within him and his heart lurch,

'_Here it comes!' _He cried inwardly in boyish delight, any second now she would transform in the ruthless tigress lurking below the surface and destroy this man.

"Lieutenant!" The slaver cried, his voice wavering, "I want everyone in the clearing! _Now_!"

Anders gripped his staff, preparing for yet another fight. He signed inwardly, after three fights in a row, he was not looking forward to how sore he would be in the morning; then he recalled how little coin they had made and felt his spirits sink even lower as he realized that he would still have to find work.

_'That should be fun…'_

There was a strange lack of action in the courtyard. Anders could see that Isabela and Varric had also readied themselves for battle, yet Hawke had remained rigid and unmoving, still slowly breaking the will of the man who stood between her and the way home. Nothing was happening.

The man was visibly losing his nerve, and Hawke's relaxing shoulders showed the triumph she felt, however, the moment changed as suddenly as it had started.

A man dressed in the same slaver's armor staggered around the corner, the ghastly sounds of a man choking on his own blood and struggling for air emanated from him and filled the clearing. Blood spilled down over his breastplate like water from a fountain and his head lolled two-and-fro like that of a rag doll,

"…C-captain!" He gurgled before collapsing to his knees and falling onto his face.

Hawke's figure went tense once again and her hand moved to the hilt of her blade at her side.

An elf dressed in dark tattered armor with hair as white as snow stepped over the man, who gasped his last bloodied breaths, and passed the man blocking Hawke's way;

"Your men are dead," The elf started, his voice was deep and smooth and if Anders hadn't been so alarmed and confused with the situation, he might have taken the time to enjoy the sound of it,

The elf continued,

"And your trap has failed, I suggest running back to your master while you can,"

The first man's eyes went wide with outrage and he firmly seized the elf by the shoulder,

"You're going no where, slave!"

Things got very strange very fast. There was a loud pop, similar to the breaking of the sound barrier and then a sound like air being sucked out of a room as the elf's eyes began to glow a ghostly blue. This same glow lit up the entirety of his body in a rather intricate design; his armored hands lit up like the claws of an ethereal beast. In one fluid movement he whirled around, stuck his hand straight through the man's chest and snarled,

"I am _not_ a slave,"

There was the sound of a man's heart being squeezed until it burst in a sickening pop, and the elf withdrew his arm, turning back to face the party as the man collapsed to the ground. Dead.

Needless to say, everyone was rather shocked. There was a long moment of silence in which all four of them simply stared at the elf in horror. Isabela, never one to miss an opportunity, was the one to break the silence,

"Hot damn," She muttered in awe,

He simply glanced at the her before nodded his head to Hawke, who was busy staring uneasily at the blood dripping from the elf's now crimson soaked gauntlet.

"I apologize," The elf started, taking a few steps off to the side to examine the carnage in the square, "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they'd be so…numerous."

Hawke's voice was strange when she responded, light and giddy; yet still shaken from the events that had just transpired,

"S-so, these men were looking for you?"

"Correct," The elf turned again to face Hawke and continued, "My name is Fenris. These men were imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister's lost property,"

"Lost property?" Anders projected, wondering if somehow Anso's missing lyrium had something to do with all this,

Fenris' cold gaze moved to Anders and lingered on him for an uncomfortably long time, until finally turning into a hateful glare, which Anders thought to be rather harsh. He hadn't spoken more than two words to the elf, and suddenly they were on bad terms? Anders sighed inwardly, accepting the fact that he would never understand the world.

"…Namely, myself." Fenris replied finally, "They were trying to lure me into the open, crude as their methods were, I could not face them myself. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely,"

Hawke began to tug at her short locks and cast her gaze to the ground, which was something she did only when feeling self conscious or embarrassed. It was how women reacted towards men they were attracted to. Anders was suddenly horrified, what had happened to the mighty she-cat threatening to tear out a man's throat with her teeth?

_You imagined that_, Justice reminded him,

In a matter of forty-five seconds Hawke had gone from bloodthirsty tigress to bashful kitten. It was disgusting.

"So," Isabela began, "Everything that dwarf told us was a lie, then?"

"Not everything. Your employer was simply not who you believed."

"Well if you couldn't fight them, why not just run?" The rogue seemed exceedingly exaggerated about the lack of coin they had picked up,

"There comes a time when you must stop running, when you turn and face the tiger."

"_That's all very well and good until you turn a man's tigress into jelly just by looking at her with sad puppy eyes…"_ Anders fumed inwardly. He was growing to dislike the elf more and more with every passing moment.

Varric scoffed, "Seems like a lot of effort to find one slave,"

Fenris glanced down at him and shrugged, "It is,"

Hawke must have seen her chance to jump in, for she began to speak hurriedly, as if she were afraid someone would talk over her and drown out her voice.

"Does this have something to do with those…markings?" She mewed.

Anders rolled his eyes.

Fenris smirked and raised his arms to show the intricate scars contrasting against his dark skin, "Yes, I imagine I must look strange to you." His face darkened as he continued, "I did not receive these markings by choice. Even so, they have served me well, without them I would still be a slave."

"If they were _really_ trying to recapture you-" Anders began, resentfully,

Hawke cut him off before he could finish his nasty remark,

"-Then we're happy we helped,"

Fenris gave the ghost of a smile and bowed his head in thanks. The healer watched on in horror as Hawke attempted to subtly find a pose to stand in that would supposedly make her look desirable. He rolled his eyes. She was covered from head to toe in sweat and blood, she couldn't possibly look desirable to this elf.

_No,_ Justice responded, _but she's doing quite the job at getting you hot and bothered, my friend._

"You know," Hawke started, "You didn't need to lie to get my help,"

"_That_ remains to be seen,"

Anders smiled as Hawke recoiled in alarm. He knew right about now she would be outraged that Fenris would find her character suspect after helping him. She didn't respond well to ungrateful people; she often complained about how nobody thanked her when she performed a service for them; and getting the approval of this elf would be even more irksome.

Fenris had begun to search the body of the man he had just brutally slaughtered while Anders had wandered into his thoughts,

"It's as I thought," The elf grunted, "My former master accompanied them into the city."

He stood and turned to Hawke, holding up his hand to keep her from speaking, this too would piss her off. Anders knew that she hated being controlled like that, especially by a man. He couldn't help but smile, relieved that her infatuation with the elf would not last long if he continued to treat her as such.

"I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees. I will need your help,"

The way Hawke tilted her head to the side had a very strong _"What the fuck?"_ air about it.

"You lured me into a trap… and now you want my _help_?" She scoffed,

It was beautiful. Anders could see Hawke's sarcastic demeanor being restored, perhaps if they were lucky she would put this elf in his place and refuse him. Much to the mage's dismay, however, Fenris matched Hawke's sarcasm perfectly,

"If Anso had told you to divert an ambush of Tevinter bounty hunters, would you have done it?"

There was a moment of silence and defeat. Anders knew the elf had her beat, Varric knew it, Isabela knew it, and Hawke was feeling the sting of failure that very moment.

"Good point…" She muttered in quiet surrender,

Fenris, however, seemed to sense her wounded pride and immediately offered something as consolation,

"Had I known of you earlier, I might have asked you personally. I had only Anso to rely on I fear. I am not lying to you now. _Please_, help me do this."

A moment of silence hung over them, Hawke was searching the elf's face for the answer to some unknown question, a question that Anders frequently asked himself.

_'How do I keep this person in my life?' _

She was smitten, the way he had been knocked head over heels for _her _two months previous. It hurt. Anders knew it shouldn't, there was no definition that Hawke even remotely shared any of the feelings he felt for her, but the knowledge that their chance to be together was quickly slipping away made him feel a rush of panic.

There was the familiar smirk in Hawke's voice now that her ego had been patched,

"It sounds like you intend to do more than talk,"

The same feral look that Hawke had sported several minutes before stirred in Fenris' eyes,

"Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones and has sent so many hunters that I have lost count," He snarled, "And before that, he kept me on a leash like a Quanri _mage_, a personal pet to mock their custom,"

Anders didn't like the way Fenris said the word "mage", it reminded him altogether too much of how Templars said it,

"So yes, I intend to more than just talk,"

Hawke shrugged and responded in the light, carefree voice she used when things got too weighty for her comfort,

"If it means bashing more slaver heads, I'm in…"

"When do we leave?" Isabela added,

The pirate was known to have a soft spot for slaves, proven by the famous telling of how she freed the cargo of a hundred slaves, getting herself into the mess she had recruited Hawke to help sweep under the rug during their first meeting. Anders personally thought this story was bullshit, but she seems adamant enough about it being true that something _similar_ to it must have occurred at some point in time.

"I will find a way to repay you, I _swear_ it," Fenris said solemnly. He held Hawke's gaze intensely for a moment that seemed to go on for eternity; Anders burned with jealousy, imagining how she must be feeling weak at the knees.

He was relieved when Fenris turned and started up the stairs, calling his last thoughts over his shoulder,

"The magister is staying in a mansion in Hightown, meet me there as soon as you can, we must enter before morning,"

_The elf if rather abrupt in his mannerisms, is he not…_ Justice muttered, _I'll give the woman's infatuation a month to last…_

"Make it a week," Anders glowered,

The infatuation would _not_ last longer than a week; Anders would do everything in his power to ensure that.


	4. The First Visit

4

"Tell me again, what exactly is the purpose of _ladies night_?"

Isabela heaved a sigh of waning patients,

"There's no purpose to it, Kitten," She replied, "It's simply a night of fun to celebrate our women-hood,"

Varric scoffed from the over stuffed arm-chair he lounged in at the other end of the room,

"If that's the case then you might as well hike up Sundermount, strip down and dance naked under the moonlight, praising some obscure old goddess of Tevinter for the gift of your vaginas,"

"Did you know that in Tevinter the Circle of Mages holds rule over everything? Can you imagine if things were like that _here_," Hawke mused dreamily, only half listening.

She, Isabela, and Merrill lay stretched out across the pirate's bed in the Hanged Man, dressed in not but their pajamas, Merrill's supplied by Isabela and Hawke's a mere oversized white shirt, one of the only remaining items of clothing that had belonged to her father. She had stolen it before they burned his body and kept it secret from her family ever since, for fear one of them may try and claim it as their own for nostalgia's sake.

Hawke had come storming into the Hanged Man, furiously raving from a fight she had just had with Carver. Under the circumstances, the last thing she wanted was to be anywhere near Gamlen's home, or her family, so in a spur of the moment decision, and due to the fact that Merrill was already present in the pub; having gotten lost and been rescued from Darktown by Varric; Isabela initiated the very first "Ladies Night", a time for leisurely, estrogen charged, girl time and talk through out the night and into the next day. The over night part was conveniently added in so that Hawke would not have to endure her younger brother's stupidity. Also, it was well past sundown and no one felt comfortable allowing Merrill to walk back to the Alienage herself.

"Oh, do they have gods like that in Tevinter?" Merrill mewed,

"You know that actually doesn't sound like a bad time, we should do that next time 'round!"

"Happy to help, Rivaini,"

"Wait, if this is a celebration of our woman-hood, why is Varric here, _he _doesn't have a vagina…or do you?"

The dwarf gave a hearty laugh,

"Not to worry Daisy, I'm only here on request,"

"He has the best stories about everyone and anyone you can think of," Isabela said, taking a swig from a wine bottle she produced from under the bed.

Hawke continued to prattle on, not caring one way or the other if anyone was listening to her or not. She lay on her back, blissfully lost in thought and day dream; a state she spent most of her time occupying these days and the catalyst for the fight she and Carver had just waged.

"_Fenris _says that in Tevinter the wine is made from the blood and tears of slaves,"

"Oh dear," Merrill gasped, "I hope he isn't being serious,"

"Probably his attempt at humor, stick in the mud that one," the pirate assured her elven friend. "Although, that dark demeanor of his is not so hard on the eyes,"

In a moment of inattentive bliss, Hawke sighed whimsically and stretched her arms out over her head,

"Tell me about it,"

Over the past few days, she had taken every opportunity humanly possible to see Fenris. He had promised to assist in the Deep Roads Expedition that Varric was helping Hawke to partner in, so that proved an opportunity to bring Fenris to the Hanged Man for a debriefing on what the journey would entail. However, time had a way of flying by when a woman is gazing at a man she is completely smitten with. Fenris left once Varric was finished speaking with him and Hawke found herself desperately wracking her brain for scenarios in which she could discreetly rendezvous with the elf.

She knew of the house that he was staying in, the old run down mansion apparently belonging to his "former master", but she did not have the courage to knock on his door and ask if she might come in for a visit, that would be much too easy. She found herself going to extreme lengths to find opportunities just to look at him. If there was one thing that could be said about Hawke, it was that she always did things the hard way, even when "the hard way" was ridiculous and borderline obsessive.

Most of the _opportunities_ began with a casual stalking session, following the elf through Kirkwall, harnessing as much stealth as she could muster; which was not even enough to fill the capacity of her little finger being as she was rather prone to bumping into and knocking things over, especially when distracted. Each day was a gamble as to how much time Hawke had before Fenris became wise to being followed; she would have to quickly devise a crafty way to weasel her way into the scenery so as to casually bump into him. Nearly every day she would "bump into" Fenris, sometimes literally to his annoyance, and nearly every day she would end up running away, panicking after finding that her mind had gone blank and retreating to a dark corner to wallow in a bout of self-pity…such as she had done several hours earlier before initiating battle with her younger sibling.

"Hold a moment… uh oh ladies," Varric started, "We may have a situation here,"

Merrill rolled onto her back and tilted her head backwards to see the dwarf,

"Did you start your bleeding for the month?"

"Men don't do that, kitten." Isabela assured her, patting Merrill on the cheek and sitting up to better assess what was happening.

He stood from his "throne" and moved towards the daydreaming Hawke, who didn't notice the change of attitude in the room until she casually wandered back to reality, only to find the faces of her Ladies' Night companions hovering over her own, staring on in curiosity, satisfaction, and delicious discovery.

"It's just as I thought," Varric mused, "She's got it bad,"

"What? Not the plague!" The elf gasped, "I'll bet Anders could clear it up,"

Isabela, who moved to straddle her smitten friend, ignored the clueless elf and took two fistfuls of Hawke's nightshirt, pulling her upright so that her face was mere centimeters away. In the sudden swiftness of Isabela's movements, Hawke had to throw her head back to avoid smashing faces with her forceful friend.

"Andraste's _tits_ Isabela-!" Hawke cried,

"Who is he?"

"Who is _who_?"

Merrill rocked back and forth whimsically,

"Sorry, what's going on?"

Utterly and completely pleased with himself for uncovering the elephant in the room, Varric crossed his arms and offered a toothy grin,

"Hawke has caught the spring fever,"

"No! You mean she's-"

"Completely head-over-heels in love I'm afraid,"

"Oh, thank the Creators, I thought you were going to say she was sick and Ladies' Night would have to be cancelled,"

Hawke missed the entire conversation between the two, as she was busy being shaken like a teething Mabari pup's new favorite toy. With her head whipping back and forth, brain rattling two-and-fro and Isabela's incessant screaming demands to know "who the poor sod was", along with the babbling background conversation of Varric explaining what exactly "spring fever" meant, no one heard the knock at the door and before anyone noticed that company had arrived it was too late.

Isabela didn't stop shaking Hawke until Aveline started shouting, and even then the room didn't stop spinning until Hawke has slipped off of the bed and lain dazed for a few long seconds, suddenly finding herself upside down on the floor staring up at…

"Hello, Fenris…" Merrill said cheerfully, "…Anders, Aveline!"

It took a moment for Hawke to regain full usage of her brain, to register that she was upside down with her legs up in the air, that through her shell shock she could see Anders was trying to inquire as to whether or not she was alright but could only hear a loud ringing and the muffled drone of Aveline and Isabela shouting at each other, and that Fenris was staring down at her, confused alarm spread across his face from having to jump back so that Hawke would not have knocked him over when she slipped off the bed.

She blinked sluggishly, still not sure what she was looking at, or how she had ended up on the floor, but the ghost of a smile hinting at the corners of the elf's brooding mask and the warm fuzzy feeling in Hawke's belly that followed brought the reality of the situation crashing back like a ship against rocks.

Hawke let loose a shrill squeak of soul crushing embarrassment, suddenly very aware that she was dressed in naught but and oversized night shirt, which had fallen open rather widely during the rouges brutal assault on her person, revealing a good portion of her breasts. In one fluid movement, Hawke was up and throwing herself over the opposite side of the bed, pressing herself flat against the floor and wishing with all her might and heart that she might be able to melt into it and disappear forever.

Isabela rolled back and forth on the bed, clutching her sides and shaking with uncontrollable laughter, so loud that Aveline had to project her voice to be heard,

"Hawke, a word please?"

She had seen the guardswoman dressed in her armor, and that she had dragged both Anders and Fenris with her meant that Aveline was not there to socialize, but for all her might, Hawke could not bring herself to move from the floor of the opposite side of the room. Her pride, and years of having a lady's etiquette pounded into her courtesy of Leandra Hawke, would not allow it. How could she make Aveline understand that she could not let a man see her as promiscuously dressed as she was? Sure Varric was a man, but circumstances with the dwarf were different, he was practically family to Hawke, just the same as Aveline or Isabela. It was nothing to bat an eye at if family saw her in her small clothes; but Anders? There was a definite chemistry between them, he was charming and a conversation could not be held with him absent of flirtation. Maker forbid if _Fenris _ever saw Hawke in such a scandalous state.

'_Sweet Maker, _Fenris_!' _Hawke sobbed inwardly, as he _had_ in fact just seen her in such a way moments before.

She died a little inside as the realization sank in.

Luckily, Varric sensed Hawke's overwhelming self loathing and came to her rescue,

"Dearest Aveline, as you witnessed from the rather impressive acrobatics that just occurred, our good friend Hawke is not what civilized folk would call _'decent'_ at the moment,"

"Ah…right," Aveline replied awkwardly, "Hawke, when you're dressed, come meet us outside. As quick as you can,"

With a start, Hawke recalled the reason for Aveline's visit, why they had not thought to invite her to "Ladies Night". She had completely forgotten the plans to intervene on the ambush set for Guardsman Donnic. Feeling completely an ass, Hawke waited for the sound of retreating footsteps and Varric's all clear.

"_Maker's Breath_ how I could be so stupid!" She cried, leaping over the bed and snatching her trousers from the back of the chair in the corner, where she had left them.

The others watched as Hawke dressed herself in seconds flat, tightening her belt, pulling on the worn and tattered boots and tucking her nightshirt into her pants.

"What's all this about, then?" Isabela mused,

"Promised Aveline I'd help her with something," Hawke replied shortly, tying the strings of her blouse, "I'll be back later,"

"We'll wait up for you," Merrill called cheerfully as Hawke snatched up her blade.

She strung it 'round her hips and cleared the staircase in a mighty leap, bobbing and weaving her way through the dwindling tavern crowd and bursting through the front door.

"Aveline I am so sor-"

In her hurry to stress how apologetically idiotic she felt, Hawke had forgotten to release the handle of the massive tavern door. The momentum of having opened it with a mighty force added to the sheer size and weight of the door pulled Hawke sharply to the left, throwing her off balance and threatening to ground her.

Anders, luckily, had nearly been hit by the door when she threw it open, stepping aside in the knick of time, and was in the perfect position to play rescuer. Hawke fell into his arms clumsily, using his shoulders as support, breathing an apology for her clumsiness.

The mage hesitated, and Hawke suddenly became very aware of his gaze, lingering straight down her oversized nightshirt, she also became aware that she had not taken care to put on undergarments and that he was most likely staring at her bare breasts. She lurched up and away from Anders and felt her face flush as she pulled her shirt tightly shut.

Anders was visibly feeling equally as shocked and flushed and tried to stammer an apology, one that went unheard as Hawke was busy committing suicide in her mind from embarrassment.

"If you're quite finished," Aveline demanded, absent of patience.

Hawke gave a curt nod and fell in step behind the guardswoman, dragging her feet and keeping her head low in agonizing self-loathing.

* * *

><p><em>Really?<em> Justice scoffed scornfully, _something as trivial as _that_ gets you flustered so?_

Normally the spirit's chastising would be bothersome, but at the moment Anders was thankful for anything to distract him from the moment at hand.

_One would think that you have never seen a pair of breasts before._

If Justice had eyes, he would have rolled them. He didn't understand. It wasn't the fact that he had caught a glimpse at a woman's breasts; it was the fact that they were _Hawke's_ breasts. Anders felt his face flush with shame, he knew it was wrong to stare as he had, but a certain degree of excitement stirring in his gut had made it impossible to look away. The image was burned into his mind, not that it was a burden; he would save it to reminisce upon when musing during one of his many bouts of insomnia. Though, at the moment he had to push the thought from his mind and think about kittens to keep from exploding right then and there.

_Pathetic, it will only cause you more grief to remember such things,_ Justice hissed, _Keep the thought then if you insist, however, do try to restrain yourself_ _for the sake of your companions and myself._

"Shut _up_, Justice." Anders grunted under his breath.

* * *

><p>The burning in her cheeks was finally dying down, but Hawke was still riddled with shame. She was not looking forward to the relentless teasing she would receive from Isabela if she found out what had transpired, and it was almost certain that she would. Ready to sink into another depression over the moment, she was rescued by Aveline,<p>

"So, you, Merrill, and the Slattern were having a …get together?" She started curtly,

Hawke had given up trying to convince Aveline not to refer to Isabela that way, arguing with the guardswoman about morals was like arguing with a brick wall.

"We were having Ladies' Night," Hawke replied innocently, then rolled her eyes quoting Isabela, "To celebrate out _womanhood_,"

Hurt flashed across Aveline's freckled face,

"Why was _I_ not invited to celebrate _my_ womanhood?"

Hawke had to hand it to her; she never beat around the bush. As direct a question as it was, Hawke found it difficult to answer. It was no secret that Aveline's masculinity was a touchy subject; a major insecurity for her, and that was certainly the conclusion she jumped to about not being invited. Hawke needed to find a way to stress that this was not the reason,

"I didn't know you would have wanted to attend, you're always going on about how you'd rather kill yourself than take part in Isabela's frivolities,"

"That doesn't make it hurt any less, Hawke." She retorted, "Yes, I would rather stay out of the whore's personal life, but …"

She trailed off. Guilt and all the wonderful feelings that accompanied the realization that you are an awful friend now piled on top of Hawke's shame and embarrassment. It was stupid of her not to invite Aveline, having been with her since Ferelden, she was practically family. It had been an act of selfish carelessness and she knew that Aveline was going to hold onto this for a while.

"Aveline, I am _terribly_ sorry. I didn't think to invite you because I knew you were busy tonight, I just forgot that we had made plans." She rested a hand on the guardswoman's armored shoulder, "I swear to you, you will be the first to know next time we have Ladies' Night,"

Admiration glowed in her emerald eyes, but she countered it by shrugging Hawke off of her,

"I'll probably be busy, but thanks for thinking of me,"

* * *

><p>It was a quick battle, mostly because the mercenaries fled at the sight of their leader being beheaded by Fenris. Aveline rushed to Donnic's side, helped him to stand, and they shared an awkward moment in the guardsman's delirium. Aveline said her goodbyes and left to see Donnic made it safely back to the barracks, Anders awkwardly excused himself, muttering something about having to meet a man about some mages (whatever that meant) and suddenly Hawke found herself standing in alone in the clearing, with Fenris.<p>

There was a moment of painful silence. Hawke dared to glance in his direction, only to avert her eyes and feel her cheeks grow hot when she met his relentless gaze. People staring had always made her uncomfortable. Hawke thought herself fairly normal looking, yet everyone always found something to stare at. In Lothering it had been her unnaturally piercing blue eyes or, before she cut it off, her long shimmering hair, these days everyone seemed to stare for the same reason, her so called beauty. Why everyone stressed she was some gorgeous creature was beyond Hawke, Bethany had always been the pretty one. The worst, though, was what they stared at the days she didn't take care to dress modestly, it was the _scar_. The horribly grisly thing that people would glimpse and find themselves unable to look away. The horrified looks on their faces would scream, "_How did she come across such a deformity_" or "_now I see why she dresses with such modesty_". Hawke quickly diverted her thoughts, not wanting to sink into yet another depression. She pulled her blouse together, wishing that she had taken the time to cover up. Her mind moved to Anders, he had not been able to look away. It made her want to crawl into a hole and die. Why did people always have to stare?

"Hawke." Fenris' voice cut straight through her angst and shocked her back to reality,

He was standing much closer that he had been before, and it made her altogether uncomfortable.

"Yes?" She mewed, hoping her alarm didn't show in her quivering voice,

"It is not wise to linger out doors after nightfall, lost in thought,"

Hawke couldn't stop a smile from curling at her lips. She loved the way he spoke. Fenris never said things simply, using words such as "nightfall" instead of saying "at night". Hawke always half expected him to speak in iambic pentameter and say things like, "_fair maiden, thou art the fairest in all the land_", then again… if he spoke to her like _that_ she wouldn't care in the least if he said, "_bitch, you lookin' fine as hell today_," as long as he said things to her.

It suddenly occurred to her that she had waited too long to respond, in a hurry to hide her smitten nature, she became flustered,

"Er, right… I should…probably be getting home…rather the Hanged Man,"

He gave her a curious look at the mention of the tavern, Hawke attempted to correct herself and began speaking entirely too quickly.

"Not that the Hanged Man is my home, I live with my uncle in Lowtown, just around the corner actually, but I get so claustrophic sometimes … I just spend a lot of time at the Hanged Man. Not drinking…well _sometimes_ drinking… I'm with Isabela … I'm not _with_ Isabela, we're just friends. I mean, we're more than friends but not in that way, not that there's anything wrong with that it's just—I should go…"

Hawke turned to leave; quite intent on throwing herself off of a cliff into the ocean, but Fenris quickly fell in step beside her. They walked in silence for several minutes, Hawke stealing glances in his direction every now and then to make sure that he wasn't waiting for her to speak. She made sure not to get too lost in thought. She had a habit of pulling a heinous face to match her mood without realizing it whenever too deep in her mind.

"I wonder," Fenris began

"…Sorry?"

"Rather, I've a curiosity that insists on being sated,"

Hawke marveled at the lightness of his voice.

Usually weighed down with some mysterious emotion, no doubt fueled by heavy thoughts, Fenris seemed to have relaxed for once, she noticed that his body had become less tense and took this as a sign to relax _herself_.

"Oh really?"

"So, again, I wonder if you might permit me to indulge in this curiosity,"

Her smile widened.

"Go on then,"

Fenris paused, seemingly for effect. Hawke noted that he had impeccable dramatic timing, knowing exactly when to pause, how long to hold someone's gaze, the correct vocal inflection to make someone want to crawl out of their skin in anticipation. He glanced at her from his peripheral vision,

"I can't help but notice that as of late you have been playing the role of my shadow," He accused,

Hawke's heart jumped into her throat and she suddenly felt as if she were going to vomit, had he been aware of her stalking him all this time?

"No I haven't!" She hurriedly retorted, throwing up her defenses.

"Oh? And am I also wrong to believe that I've seen you pacing the street in front of my door these nights?"

She could feel anger welling up in her chest.

"Well, I… I was just-"

Who the hell did he think he was? It was true that the fact that Fenris flustered her so was already vexing enough, but how could someone be so suspicious as to assume that they were being followed at all times. It wasn't as if she were stalking him… even though that was exactly what she was doing, but Hawke was not about to tell him that, to throw herself at his feet and declare her undying love for him.

'_Hold a moment,_' She started inwardly, '_this feeling, it's not love; you're not in love. Stop it Hawke!_'

She was suddenly at war with herself, half of her wanted to turn tail and run, head for the hills or the Hanged Man, to do something drastic to stress her hatred for the opposite sex, to show that she was an independent woman who didn't need a man. But the other half wanted the elf to sweep her off her feet, carry her to the frigid, run down mansion he lived in and make passionate love to her all night long by the light of a thousand candles, then wake her in the morning with soft kisses on the nape of her neck; _that_ side wanted to stay in this moment forever.

Fenris stopped suddenly and turned to face Hawke who felt her stomach drop into her boots. She was suddenly very afraid that he was going to try and kiss her. How wonderfully awful that would be. To feel his lips brush against her own, have him hold her against his body, yet if she allowed him to do such a thing she knew she would fall in love with him. She could not allow herself to fall in love… not again.

It was only then that Hawke noticed that she had followed him all the way to the door of his mansion and he was now waiting to see whether or not she was going to come in or go home. She felt altogether very silly for assuming such things. How would she explain that she was so wrapped up in wrestling her unchecked emotions, fighting feelings she may or may not have had about the elf that she lost track of where she was and ended up passing her destination.

"And yet you stalk me still," Fenris mused, his mouth twisted into a crooked smirk,

"I just wanted to make sure you got home safe, Kirkwall is a dangerous city after dark," She lied.

True Kirkwall was dangerous, that danger increasing tenfold when the sun set, but Fenris was fully capable of handling any danger that presented itself,

"I can take care of myself," He retorted, the smirk fading, and confirming Hawke's thoughts,

Yet another awkward moment weaseled its way into the evening as Fenris and Hawke stood at the door. Hawke shifted her weight from foot to foot, waiting for him to slam the door in her face. He did not, however. Fenris twisted the handle and held the door open for her. Hawke hesitated, unsure of whether to follow her instinct and run, or followed Fenris' example and "_sate her curiosity_".

She drew in a deep breath and made up her mind. She would take the chance, throwing caution to the wind; she stepped into the dark mansion.

It was cold and dark inside, the main foyer illuminated only by moonlight streaming through the many holes in the ceiling. Fenris slipped past Hawke and made his way to the stairs.

"Take caution in where you step," He called over his shoulder,

Hawke stopped dead in her tracks, inches from setting off a rusty leg-hold trap. She felt a cold sweat form at her brow, thinking about the embarrassment and pain she would have suffered had she blundered into the trap, as she usually did.

After carefully picking her way across the foyer, Hawke hurried up the stairs to catch up to Fenris, who had not taken care to wait for her. She reached the top landing and found herself lost. Three doors lay before her, and in her dedication to not set off any of the various traps the elf had set, she failed to take note of which Fenris had entered. The intellectual side of Hawke grew furious. He was making her look like a fool; she knew she should just leave, but that would only mean admitting defeat. She hovered in the hallway, unsure of which course of action to take, when Fenris' voice came from on of the doors,

"Come in." He called.

Hawke felt immediately like a fool. On the far right, an open door, the _only_ _open door_, lit up the hallway with firelight; this was the door from which Fenris' voice had made itself known.

She entered the room and moved to a large chair next to a beat up table, sitting when Fenris motioned to her. Hawke, feeling the nostalgia of her teenage awkwardness, preoccupied herself by staring into the firelight. She fought the familiar tickle of butterflies in her stomach and attempted not to over think the situation. It was only the second time in her life that she had been alone in a room with a man she was not familiar with. The last time she had found herself in this situation, she had been barely a woman and had ended up losing her virginity… it was altogether awkward. Hawke did not know what to expect, and that frightened the girl that stood cringing behind her protective camouflage. She did her best to focus on the crackling, burning logs, set in the filthy, ash-ridden fireplace.

Fire always made her anxious. Not because she feared it; it gave her a longing twinge in her palms and forearms, a familiar itch she had long ago learned to combat yet put a certain lust for the old feelings of power.

"Aggregio Pavali," Fenris started, tearing Hawke's gaze from the flames,

He stood holding a bottle of dark wine, "There are six bottles in the cellar,"

He stared at it in contempt, the corner of his mouth twitching in suppressed emotion,

"Danarius used to have me pour it for his guests. My appearance intimidated them, he said, which he enjoyed."

Feeling awkward and out of place and hoping to regain some of the nerve she lost amidst the night's shame, embarrassment, self-loathing, and room full of traps, Hawke added another layer to her camouflage and cracked a smirk,

"I can't imagine _why_ they would be put off," She purred,

To her satisfaction, he returned the smile,

"You say what's on your mind, I'll give you that,"

After a moment of contemplation, Fenris brought the bottle to his mouth and took a long swig of the wine before proceeding to hurl the bottle against the wall. It shattered into a million tiny shards, staining the pale stone a deep crimson, too dark to blood, yet watching it drip down the wall sent a shiver down Hawke's spine.

"It's good I can still take pleasure in the small things," Fenris said lightly, if there were any weighty feelings plaguing his heart, he had chosen to bury them for that moment, which lifted the tension formed from his destructive display.

She suddenly felt pressed to say something comforting, yet nothing fitting came to mind,

"You've…had a difficult life…" She managed to mutter, realizing the strangeness of the comment the moment it left her lips.

Hawke watched in anguish as Fenris shut down and put up his defenses. Accustomed to doing the same, she recognized the signs and immediately regretted saying anything,

"I'd rather not speak more of it,"

"Are you certain?" She pressed, "I'm willing to listen,"

Fenris gave a weak chuckle, "To my _whining_? Very charitable of you…"

He paused a moment, staring into the fire. Hawke could see him struggling, wrestling with some deep emotion, a wound that he tried his best to step around in the past, and one that she had just poked her fingers into. She was preparing to apologize when he cut her off,

"I wanted to leave my past behind me," He started. "But it won't stay there,"

The elf turned and moved to the chair opposite Hawke,

"Tell me, have you never wanted to return to Ferelden?"

She hesitated. There was no definite answer to the question. Leaving Ferelden had been a major step in the healing process of a very old, very deep, very _severe_ wound she had suffered early in life. Taking that first step into Kirkwall a year previous had been a breath of a fresh air, relief to shed the weight of her former self and all the baggage that she had carried for more than twenty years. But in Ferelden, the Hawke family had been complete, not the broken shadow of what they once were.

"I grew up in Ferelden, in a sense it will always be my home…but…" She trailed off.

Fenris was not about to let her drop the subject, he continued without missing a beat, learning towards Hawke for emphasis,

"The Blight is over, you could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?"

"Some things can _never_ be rebuilt, Fenris… besides, my mother is from Kirkwall. Our heritage is here."

With a sigh, Fenris learned back in his chair and diverted his gaze back to the fireplace,

"Having a place where you can put down roots, I understand… still to have the option must be gratifying…"

A silence hung over the two. Hawke was doing everything in her power not to think of the life she led in Ferelden. The girl with the long hair, who loved to run and play, to ride horses and feel the wind streaming through her long hair. The hopeless romantic who enjoyed sappy love stories about far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, princes and maidens, and happily ever afters. The girl who fell head over heels in love with a man far too old for her and allowed him to treat her like dirt, to wound her deeply in a fit of selfish pique and leave her to die. She'd left that life and the person she was back then behind her and she intended to keep it that way.

A sudden thought crossed her mind,

"Do _you_ intend to keep living here?"

"I haven't decided," Fenris replied, looking back at Hawke, "But for now, it's as good as any other place."

In the long run, when Hawke had said "here" she'd meant Kirkwall, not the mansion of his former master, but his response was gratifying enough,

"I would return to _Seheron_ if I could, but…there is no life for me there."

"Is that where you're from?"

She could see him shutting down again and internally kicked herself. She was ruining the moment and it was maddening.

"So I've been told,"

"Were you very young when you left?"

"Perhaps…"

It was a stupid question. She often forgot that the circumstances of his life in Tevinter had left him with no memories of anything else, why did her mind insist on making a fool of her?

Seeing that the conversational material had taken a nosedive, Hawke threw out one last question with no real hope of reviving the familiarity they had shared a moment before.

"You've been on the run a long time then?"

"…Three years now…"

A pang of sadness struck her hard. Three years. She knew hers was not in any way shape or form the same as Fenris' situation, but in a sense, Hawke could say that she too had been on the run for three years. On the run from the ghosts of her past, the weakness that threatened to over take her ever since her father died.

"Danarius has a way of finding me – perhaps it's the markings?" Fenris continued, more to himself than to Hawke, "Whatever the means it never takes him long to follow. This is the first time I've given him reason to pause," Then with a ghost of a smile, "I suppose there are advantages in numbers…"

Hawke had trouble believing that he had been alone for three years. Even in her most lonely stages, Hawke had never truly been alone. She had always had her mother or Carver or Bethany… Surely there had to be _someone_…

"Haven't you sought help before?"

He shrugged, "Hirelings, when I could steal the coin, never anyone of substance…until _you_."

The inflection he used when referring to her made Hawke's stomach do a flip. She could feel the fits of girlish giggles coming on and did her best to fight it, though she could not keep the smile from her face.

"Maybe it's just me, but it sounds like you want to stick around," Hawke dared to let a hint of flirtation slip into her voice,

Fenris must have taken it as a challenge, as he matched her and added a nonchalant shrug, playing it cool so to frustrate Hawke to no end.

"I could see myself staying, for the right reasons…"

The suddenly as if struck with a forgotten thought, he resigned from their flirtatious game and changed the pace,

"I should thank you again for helping me with the hunters,"

Satisfied with her victory, Hawke leaned back in her chair and breathed a flighty response,

"Yes, you should,"

Then with a sly glance, Fenris pulled the rug out from under Hawke's feet… metaphorically speaking of course.

"Had I known Anso would send me a woman so…_capable_, I might have asked him to look sooner,"

Her heart skipped a beat and all the breath went from her lungs.

'_What is _that_ supposed to mean? Does he like me? I think he likes me,_'

Hawke was left gaping stupidly. Completely devoid of a witty remark, she scoffed,

"Flatterer,"

Fenris smiled and stood,

"Perhaps I should practice my flattery for your next visit? With any luck I'll become better at it,"

Hawke felt her face grow hot; fidgeting in her chair she sensed that the conversation was over, yet she was reluctant to leave. However, to stay was to take the chance of ruining what they had built in the span of the last hour.

She cleared her throat and stood,

"Well, it's late, I should get going,"

Fenris bowed his head curtly, "Of course,"

Her gaze lingered on his face, trying to suppress the grin growing across her face by biting her lip. She turned for the door,

"Can I trust you to make it past the traps, or do you need to be escorted to the door?" Fenris called to her,

It was slightly insulting that he thought her so clumsy as to blunder into every trap within a five-mile radius, yet did not wish to spoil the mood of the evening any more than she already had; Hawke merely waved to him and,_ carefully_, left the mansion.

The night air was cool against her blushing face, it wasn't until then that she realized by making the remark about "escorting her to the door", Fenris wanted to walk her out. She kicked herself for being so dense, but did not linger on it.

Hawke felt as if she were floating as she made her way through Hightown, heading for the Hanged Man. Humming softly to herself, she began to imagine what her life could be like with Fenris. Long walks through the city at night, holding hands, soft kisses, whispering sweet nothings, passionate sex. She sighed and permitted herself to twirl in girlish delight.

'_So…this _is_ love,_' Her heart breathed,

She was light headed from the ecstasy of the moment, but it soon ebbed, as her brain got involved,

'_Oh no it's not; we're not falling in love. Not again, you promised…_'

'_But being in love feels so good,_'

'_Don't do this to us! Remember how much it hurt last time…_'

Hawke felt the throb of old heartache, she remembered the feeling of hopelessness. The pounding of her head, how her throat closed up and the gaping wound that ached for months. The nights where she lay in bed and thought she would die, and the desperate agony when she realized that she may _not_ die and would have to carry on feeling like this forever. She tried to convince herself that it would be different. _He_ was different.

It then occurred to Hawke that with a personality like his, Fenris was not about to kiss, hold hands with, and whisper sweet nothings to a person he'd known a little over a month. To flirt and be the first to make a move, make crazy assumptions about how they would be together forever after spending one night of quality time together. Fenris was not _Anders_.

Hawke hesitated outside the door of the Hanged Man, the crushing feeling that she was alone and would remain that way forever threatening to cast her into oblivion once again. She gave a hefty sigh, reminding herself that she was a shorthaired girl, dangerous, a fuck buddy, not a lover. She didn't need a man in her life.

She entered the tavern; only two people still sat in the dining room. It was dark except for the fireplace. The ambiance of the room reminded her of what she had just shared with Fenris, and all of her angst couldn't extinguish the little flame of hope growing within her heart.

'_Maybe this time it _will_ be different,_'

Too wound up to go to bed, Hawke pulled a particularly comfy chair up to the fireplace and proceeded to stare into the flames. It allowed her to relax, but it also stirred up the pent up itching in her arms. She wanted the warmth coursing through her veins, the feeling of truly being alive. As her fingers began to twitch, Hawke curled her hands into fists and drew in a deep breath. As if on cue, Varric stumbled down the stairs from his room. His hair was draped around his face and around his shoulders, loose from the tie that normally bound it. He had obviously just woken from attempting to sleep and decided to come stare at the fire.

"Well, well, well," He started upon seeing Hawke, pulling up an equally comfy chair next to her. "Look what the cat dragged in, when did you get back, Princess?"

She smiled, a little indignantly,

"Just now, shouldn't you be asleep,"

The dwarf scoffed,

"Who sleeps anymore?"

Hawke felt no need to carry conversation, yet didn't dare to look back at the fire, so she closed her eyes and let her mind wander. There was almost no stopping it when her heart wanted something, and at the moment, it wanted to be back in Fenris' mansion. Her brain tried to convince it otherwise, stressing to her heart that it was cold and dirty inside, but her heart flitted an airy response, reminding the brain that they would be accustomed to it having grown up in Ferelden.

"That's quite a scar you've got there, Hawke."

Varric's observation made her heart lurch. Hawke felt as if she had been punched in the gut, the breath immediately gone from her lungs, her head started to pound and hear heart was going 90 miles per hour, in that moment she went white with the fear that she would vomit. She must have visibly recoiled, because Varric hesitated before pressing on about it.

"One like that, I'm sure it's got one hell of a story to tell,"

She was at a loss for words. Why did people always have to stare? She reached up to her collarbone and fingered the tiny portion of the enormous scar gingerly. Hawke felt her throat closing up; unable to speak she merely nodded. After a moment of trying not to cry, Hawke stood and patted Varric's shoulder as she passed, heading up the stairs and down the hall to Isabela's room.

There she found Isabela and Merrill fast asleep, a mess of tangled limbs. Kicking off her boots, undoing her belt and pulling off her trousers, Hawke was once again in naught but her father's old shirt. She pushed and shoved at the two until they made enough room for one more body. Uncomfortably cramped, she found herself unable to sleep. Her mind was racing with the events of the night… she stared into the darkness, lost in hopeless turmoil.


	5. Painful Reminders

5

"I'm starting to think that she's doing this on purpose," Carver said, grinding his teeth together.

Hawke simply yawned, for the hundredth time in past half hour, bored by her younger brothers temper tantrum and exhausted from the previous night's events and lack of sleep.

Isabela had woken her sleeping mates with the rising sun, kicking both Hawke and Merrill out onto the street for undisclosed reasons. Still half asleep and too delirious to be angry, Hawke walked Merrill back to the Alienage, politely weaseled her way out of staying for a traditional Dalish breakfast, Merrill being the notoriously horrendous cook, and made her way groggily back to Gamlen's hovel where she was promptly roused by Carver as soon as she had fallen back to sleep.

The young soldier had been attempting to find a position with the city guard ever since Aveline had achieved hers. He had been hopeful that having a friend in the guard would prove a useful "in", but so far Carver had been rejected at every turn. Hawke supposed that he meant to confront their ginger friend, demanding to know why she was undermining him… why _Hawke_ had to accompany him was completely beyond her abilities of understanding in her impaired state of mind. She wondered if it was for protection. Carver _was_, after, all secretly afraid of Aveline.

"It's not fair!" He continued, "She has to be breaking laws here!"

"Sure, Aveline is mindfully breaking laws," Hawke scoffed, "She's only Guard Captain, Carver…"

"That doesn't mean she wouldn't go crooked!"

"That's ridiculous. What could she possibly have done to get your panties in such a knot?"

Carver whipped around, his voice rising to a near hysterical tone. Hawke sluggishly started to become aware that if he kept this up, he would wake half the sleeping residents of Lowtown, which would prove to be poor judgement on his part.

"She's deliberately undermining me at every turn!"

He continued on, his sister dragging sleepily behind him, stopping every other word to flail and wave his arms about in emphasis. It was a very slow trek; his rantings slowing them down so much that it took ten minutes to reach the Hanged Man, a walk that at her slowest Hawke could make in five minutes tops. Carver kept raging about conspiracies in the guard against him, and Hawke continued to only half listen, her mind still back in bed, calling to her body. All she could manage to keep herself from falling asleep right then and there was to allow her mind, though missing in action, to wander.

She took in her surroundings and began to wonder why there were no trees planted in Kirkwall; overlooking the enormous tree smack dab in the center of the Alienage, there was not a ficus to be found… not even in Hightown. What the city did have was a thriving population of smelly, dirty, personal space invading, homeless refugees, especially in Darktown.

Hawke shuttered at the thought of the place; how she loathed having to go into Darktown, it was the reason she so sparsely visited Anders; which was regrettable, as he was such a good friend to her. Hawke suddenly felt a pang of guilt, all the times he had been there for her, just as someone to talk to when Isabela's tales of her various adventures with coitus and Varric's exaggerating became tiresome; not to mention all the times the healer had saved her life. If only Anders lived in Lowtown, she would actually get a chance to see him now and again. It couldn't be sanitary to have the clinic in Darktown anyway; technically it was _the sewer_… no place for medical assistance. Darktown was for lack of a better term, a hole. Sometimes she wished it would just go away. Hawke then came to the conclusion that Kirkwall would be a much prettier city if there were less homeless people (rather less _Darktown_) and more trees.

Eventually, as it always did these days, Hawke's mind moved to Fenris. She wondered if he was up and stalking about the city, cranky and tired, or if he had the luxury to sleep in. She wondered if he liked trees and how he felt about Darktown; if he would agree that by not visiting Anders, Hawke was being a bad friend…

"I mean we're practically family, after everything we've been through together. You'd think she'd be willing to pull some strings for me!"

"What, did she turn you away _again_?" Hawke yawned,

Carver's voice went up an octave, causing his sister to cringe. This was getting rediculous. The man was becoming altogether too passionate about his rantings, it was quickly turning from Carver being upset about a real issue, to Carver throwing a temper tantrum, which was not the maturist thing for someone his age to do.

"She said she would do what she could but we all know that means '_no_', she's got the guard against me I tell you! It's a conspiracy! Bloody ginger, working her witchy, witchy ways!"

Anyone who knew Carver well enough knew about his irrational belief that ginger people, like Aveline, didn't have souls and were inherently evil, which of course was ridiculous; having a soul meant having a conscience and morals, and in their ragtag gang of armed lunatics, Aveline was the biggest moral whore of them all. Hawke wondered how Fenris felt about gingers.

"Maybe Aveline's a mage," Hawke giggled, "And she's cast an anti-guard spell on you,"

For emphasis, Hawke waggled her fingers at her brother and produced a mocking ghostly moan. Carver was not amused.

"If only she were, then we could get the _Templars_ involved and _then_ we'd be getting somewhere!"

In that moment, the world was made of glass and Carver's words were stones, shattering everything around him and his sister. Hawke's heart lurched, forcing her to stop dead in her tracks, horrified at the distastefulness of her brother's joke. He seemed to sense the error of his words the moment he spoke, as he stopped as well. It took a moment for him to face his sister; Hawke staring daggers at his back as she watched him work up the courage to own up to his mistake. There was a long period of heavy silence between the siblings; Carver's anger having ebbed and moved on to replace Hawke's lighthearted sleep depravity.

Finally, _slowly_, he turned to face his sister, shame creasing his face and darkening his eyes.

"Sis…I-"

"How dare you say that."

"It was just a joke…"

"A really bad one! After all the Templars have done to our family, how could you possibly think it would be okay to joke about something like that?"

"…I didn't mean-"

"That you would even go there astounds me,"

He hung his head in shame, unable to maintain eye contact. Unable to meet Hawke's eyes, their _father's _eyes.

Hawke had been the only one of her siblings to inherit Malcolm Hawke's icy blue gaze. Though she took after her mother's short temper, and the family was used to the eldest daughter's temper tantrums, nothing was more painful for her siblings than to disappoint their sister. Not to anger, Hawke's anger was nothing they hadn't seen before, but to receive the familiar surrendered sigh and the piercing gaze. Malcolm Hawke's disappointed gaze had been one of his most powerful weapons. One that made you squirm under its power, that made even the most devout follower of the Maker feel like a horrible person, the scum of the earth; it made you want to go and scrub the horrible feelings of shame from your body, as if it had collected and built up a tangible grime on your person.

Bethany had once described it, saying that when they looked into their sister's eyes, it brought them comfort because it was almost as if they were looking into their father's eyes; it made Hawke's pride and kindness all the sweeter for them, yet her sadness and disappointment ever more painful. Carver did his best to avoid eye contact with his eldest sister for this reason. Both sisters knew that their brother felt inadequate in their father's eyes, as he had favored them, this was the cause of Carver's bad attitude, especially towards the eldest. From day one, he had done everything in his power to clash with his older sister, undermining her, berating her, talking down to her for what she was. It angered Hawke that he would punish her for something she had no control over. She was the first-born daughter, the pride and joy of her father's life; it wasn't her fault that Carver was born last, that he had nothing in common with Malcolm and their relationship was strained. For someone who seemed to do everything possible to anger his sister, Carver was a coward when it came time to face Hawke's wrath.

"Even if Aveline was undermining you, if she were a mage how could you even _think_ of going to them?"

"I won't!" Carver started desperately, "I haven't!"

"Would you do that to Merrill or Anders? To Bethany or m—" She hesitated, _No… you are not that person._ Hawke took a breath to compose herself and continued, "Would you do that to _father_?"

The younger Hawke sibling visibly flinched. She could tell that Hawke had hurt him by going there, she was hurting too, but it had to be said. Never would she dream of digging up their father to hide behind him, but she Hawke needed to make this point. She needed to _make_ Carver understand that Templars were nothing to joke about. Not to the Hawke family.

In hindsight, she should not have mentioned their father, though three years deceased now, the loss was still devastating.

* * *

><p>Malcolm Hawke's death was messy in detail and physicality. The ultimate cause of death occurred by Malcolm bleeding out in the middle of Lothering's market. The wound that had killed him was inflicted by a Templar who continuously hounded their family about harboring apostates. True, the Hawke household was home to more than one mage, but no one but a handful of people knew that, and all those who did either lived in the house or in the Free Marches.<p>

Malcolm had been a well-respected man in Lothering; working as a carpenter, he had helped many of the village's families build and repair their homes. He spent much of his free time assisting those in need and performing the tasks lined up on the Chantry Board, never asking for compensation. No one ever had an ill word to utter about the head of the Hawke family, with his beautiful young wife and pretty, raven-haired daughter, Olivia; they were a picturesque family.

The events that took place in late winter, just after his eldest daughter's ninth birthday would forever remain a mystery to those not involved. Onlookers would say it was the stress of supporting a growing family, what with a pair of twins added to the mix, but there was a noticeable change to Lothering's beloved Malcolm Hawke. His hair started to gray, his handsome face became lined and weary, his eyes darkened, and anyone could see that he bore a heavy heart. Just as drastic a change took place in Olivia. The once loud and rambunctious child became quiet, always lost in her thoughts. Her eyes became wide with fear and she always looked on the verge of tears. She became fearful, skittish, and altogether too cautious for a girl her age; choosing to stay close to home at all times rather than run and play with the other children like she once had. She stopped saying hello to passers by, talking to friends, and became totally and completely introverted.

Whatever had happened that day in late winter had heavily impacted the lives of Malcolm and his eldest; it was also when the trouble with the Templar, Ser Mathas, started.

A young man, brimming with pride and expectations for his new Knighthood, Mathas had been there in the woods that day in late winter. He had seen something, something that scarred him deeply, and something that convinced him that the Hawkes were apostates. He had gone to the family respectfully, asking that any and all mages present should give themselves up and go to the Circle Tower for initiation. He promised that none would be prosecuted for their actions and offered to watch over the little ones personally upon arrival to the Circle. Little did young Mathas know that, in his naiveté, he was barking up the wrong tree, provoking the wrath of Malcolm Hawke in all its fury.

Malcolm was indeed an Apostate, having escaped from the Circle, he'd spent all his adult life moving from place to place to avoid being caught and sent back. Though he'd never experienced them, he knew the Circle to be a terrible thing, a place where his mother had endured horrors too terrible to fathom. He would not subject a single member of his family to that.

Mathas was turned away, but not before being fiercely threatened by the head of the household. The Templar was never to approach the Hawke family or his children again, lest he wished to suffer most terrible injury to his person.

Not wanting to lose what could possibly have been the biggest lead he would ever receive in his career as a Templar, Mathas started a personal vendetta against the Hawkes when he was turned away. It was no surprise that no one in Lothering would go along with his investigation, not even the Knight-Commander. No one would believe that they had been fooled all along, that any member of such a pleasant family could be a mage in hiding. Mathas was demoted for continuously harassing the Hawke family in a time of great strife for them.

With each passing year, Mathas grew more and more bitter. His obsession aged him greatly, changed him; it consumed him. The Templar's life, which had been so bright and promising, soon fell apart. He was dishonored, disowned, and disheveled, and he blamed all of his hardships in their entirety on the Hawke family.

Malcolm Hawke died in his eldest daughter's arms three days before her twentieth birthday. Complications had forced them to move to Redcliff three years earlier; mostly to escape Mathas' obsession with them. Time passed peacefully for them, but word was sent that Lothering had begun to suffer without the presence of the Hawkes, so with a sigh, they packed up, said goodbye to Redcliff and moved back.

It had not been a month since the move and they were finally starting to settle in, though wearily, despite Malcolm and Leandra having been assured by Lothering's Knight-Commander that they would be harassed no more. Carver and Bethany had just celebrated their sixteenth birthday, and preparations were in order for Olivia's birthday party, which promised to be a grand occasion, half the town being invited to celebrate (and the other half planning to attend anyway), and life was finally seeing to go smoothly again for their family.

Olivia had taken her sibling into town to buy them each a belated birthday present, her faithful Mabari, Peekay, happily padding along them, always playing the role of nanny to his master's siblings. The townspeople eagerly welcomed them back, it's blossoming young ladies giggling and fawning over Carver's developing physique, its young men eagerly gathering around to get a look at the lovely Hawke daughters; to catch a glimpse of Olivia's tall, hour-glass physique, ice blue eyes, and long, braided, ebony locks glistening in the sun, or perhaps it was Bethany's quickly blossoming bosoms, which had already surpassed her elder sister's in size, that they had come to gaze upon.

Olivia was doing her best to ignore the stares of the crowd, self-consciously pulling her blouse tightly closed at the throat, as Bethany fawned over the various Orlesian trinkets laid out before her. The eldest Hawke sibling, who herself had her eye on a pair of delicately decorated blue high heeled shoes, was beginning to wonder where her brother had wandered off to when she heard one of the various townspeople mutter something that caused her heart to jump up into her throat.

"Is that Mathas?"

"What the hell is he doing here?"

She dared not look, hoping that it was a mistake, frantically praying to Andraste that they were wrong, that he hadn't spotted them and was not swiftly making his way straight or them. She was not ready to face Mathas, to have those old wounds reopened.

Peekay released a low, menacing growl as the sound of armored footsteps grew louder and louder until they were upon Olivia.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Mathas' hissing voice sounded too close for comfort, "It's about time you showed your faces, you gonna come quietly this time or do things have to get complicated?"

She ignored him. He stank of ale and his unkempt body; Mathas' eyes were heavy, encircled by deep dark rings, his face had gone gaunt and his skin was pale. Olivia recognized it immediately as lyrium withdrawal, he would not be thinking clearly, easily confused. Perhaps she could find a way out of making a scene. Taking Bethany by the shoulder, she pulled her away from the booth of Orleasian niceties,

"We'll come back later," She promised. "Carver! We're leav-"

"Don't ignore me, apostate!"

Mathas' raised voice had caught the attention of the townsfolk and in an instant, the usually bustling market had gone silent, the Templar's voice a dying echo in the square. Sensing the growing tension, Olivia responded quickly, wishing to avoid incident,

"Ser, please, you mistake me for someone else…"

"Don't lie to me, you're apostates, the lot of you!"

"Then why don't you _prove_ it?" Carver growled, suddenly at his sisters' side.

He and Mathas locked glares, both seemingly attempting to force the other to burst into flames. The boy had taken a first full of Olivia's skirt, his budding manhood driving him to assert himself and stand up for his sisters, yet his lingering naiveté forcing him to proceed with caution, to lean on his elder sibling for support in the face of a real threat to which depths he dangerously underestimated._ Peekay's_ misunderstanding, who's growl had turned to a ripping snarl, was more forgivable seeing as he was a Mabari, admirable courage for a hound who was supposedly smart enough not to speak.

Olivia needed to end this before it began, before Carver did something drastic to provoke the wrath of a Templar who's judgment was, at the moment, severely impaired. Her brother had not had the fear of the Knighthood beaten into them like she and Bethany had. He didn't _know_…

"I assure you, Ser Mathas, you have us mistaken for another family. I bid you leave us be," And with a respectful bow of the head, she turned once more and began to usher her siblings towards home.

In his handicapped state, the Templar must have taken the denial and turning of Olivia's back as a direct insult to his social status, which had declined greatly since he became obsessed with their family, and he became immediately enraged. His hand shot out and took hold of Olivia's wrist, pulling her back to him with shocking force.

"Don't you turn your back on me, bitch!" He snarled, "I could have you made tranquil in a heartbeat if it so tickled my fancy, so if I were you I'd learn some respect for your betters!"

A man stepped from the crowd, a blacksmith who was a good friend of her father's. His weather worn face was solemn with warning as he spoke in a low gravelly dragons growl of a voice,

"Let young Miss Hawke go Mathas, you've no quarrel with her,"

"Stand down! This is a dangerous apostate, just one of a family of maleficarum! The Order dictates that she be taken to the Circle immediately!"

The townsfolk recoiled in disgust, horrified that the Templar would accuse a family as beloved as the Hawkes of something so ghastly, so blasphemous. The citizens reacted as such, heckling the Templar before moving on with the routine their daily lives;

"Oh not this again,"

"Come off it Mathas, none of the Hawke's are mages,"

"Isn't it about time you stopped this charade?"

As Mathas continued to scream his justifications, going on and on about how they were being fooled, under the influence of Blood Magic, which is why they couldn't "see the apostates walking among them", Olivia's need to end the situation before it escalated any further became desperately drastic.

"Ser." She said firmly, "You have mistaken me for someone else, kindly allow me to be on my way."

In hindsight, it was not the best idea for her to hold unwavering eye contact with the paranoid Templar. To cast a spell of dominion over another, eye contact must be held and unbroken for as long as it takes to utter the incantation; all Templars are taught this in basic training; a fact that _she_ was unaware of. Though Olivia was participating in no such action, Mathas became frantic.

"You will not have me, witch! My mind is my own!"

The steel gauntlet covering his hand released Olivia yet came back around with incredible force, colliding with the side of her face. She released an earsplitting cry of shock and pain, landing hard in the dirt. Mathas quickly took hold of her arm and attempted to drag her to her feet, the girl, bleeding heavily from the mouth and nose, pleading through tears for him to release her.

"Let go of her!" Carver cried, running at Mathas, fully intending to cause the Templar pain for hurting his sister.

The boy smashed into his target with all his might, not enough to knock the armored man to the ground, but to stagger him and free his prisoner.

Olivia scrambled to her feet, seizing Peekay by the collar before the Mabari could engage battle and cause more bloodshed than there already had been,

"Bethany, go get father!" She sniffled,

The young girl, eyes wide with fear, nodded quickly and took off down the road; Olivia shoved the massive hound in the direction Bethany had run, not an easy task as the war dog was close to two hundred pounds of sheer muscle and was out for blood,

"Go with her Peekay,"

A low growl interlaced with a whine proved that he had no intention of following Bethany, his duty was to protect his master, but after a shout from said person, the Mabari begrudgingly loped away.

Olivia turned back to see that in the short time it had taken her to send for help, Carver had drawn a knife on Mathas, burying it deep in the shoulder between his pauldron and breastplate; something the Templar did not take kindly to. He brought an armored elbow up into the boy's face, a sickening crunch echoing throughout the clearing.

The townsfolk watched on in horror, hesitant to intervene on the fight. Mathas may have been temporarily insane, but he was still a Templar; above the law of the town guard.

Carver kneeled in the dirt, clutching a broken, bleeding nose in agony, unaware of Mathas advancing on him.

"You little shit!" Mathas spat, tearing the knife from his shoulder and hurling it away.

A swift kick to his ribs initiated the beating that Carver proceeded to take. Olivia watched on in horror as her little brother was mercilessly hit again and again; her heart racing, she wracked her brain for an answer, a solution. What was she to do? How could she end this quickly? A thought suddenly came to her, a murmur in the back of her mind, an inaudible whisper.

_There's always _my_ way… _It purred, _just prick of the finger, a flick of the wrist and it will be over… he'll be gone…_

'_No. No, we can't do that, it's not an option…'_

She was suddenly blinded by something glinting in the sun just to the left of her; there. A solution. Olivia cast the whisper to the deepest depths of her mind. It was not an option. And idea, maybe, but not a solution…

She snatched up the knife and drove it into the back of Mathas' leg, at the bend of his knee where his armor partly briefly. He let out a guttural shriek of pain, momentarily collapsing to his knees. It was only a moment, but it was all she needed, all Carver needed. Mathas recovered in a matter of seconds, ripping the knife from his leg and turning his wrath upon Olivia. She staggered backwards, avoiding the blade he slashed wildly in her direction; a flick of her fingers sent out a force to his hand and disarmed Mathas. He snatched her wrist up once again, only to have Carver attack from behind, leaping up and onto his back. In the struggle, Olivia was thrown to the ground and Carver ended up taking another beating. She managed to get to her knees and glance up, only to receive a swift left hook to the jaw, knocking Olivia back down.

The fight was over. Mathas had drawn his sword to Carver, the tip at his throat preventing the boy from standing. Dazed, Olivia stared at the crimson drops splattering and staining the ground below her. Her ears rang, her vision was blurred, and her face was numb. She could vaguely hear Mathas ordering her to her feet, but in her delirium, she could not determine whether or not she was imagining things.

"I said. Get. Up!"

Mathas seized Olivia by the base of her braid, taking a fistful of thick, ebony hair, and wrenched her up onto her knees. Once more, the girl's cry echoed throughout Lothering. Olivia allowed herself to hang by her braid, too tired and beat down to fight back any longer. She opened her eyes, a sudden thought hitting her, and turned her icy gaze upon the on-looking citizens of their little town. Why hadn't anyone stepped in yet? Why had they allowed this to happen to _children_? Why didn't the blacksmith do more than just threaten? The answer came to Olivia before she'd even finished pondering the question. Mathas was a Templar; no one dared cross him.

She felt the cold steel of his blade press against her throat and released a whimper of pure and abject terror.

"Mathas! Release my daughter. _Now_."

The booming voice of Olivia's father cut through the air like a blade, she released a sob of relief. He stood not thirty feet away, Bethany and Peekay at his side. Though hesitant, Mathas released her. As soon as she was free, Olivia scrambled to her feet, seizing Carver, who was struggling to stand, by the shoulders and pulling him with her. Bethany began to sob at the sight of her siblings, blackened, bruised, bleeding, and broken.

Malcolm Hawke was a tower of strength. Six foot four, his slim muscle bound body dwarfed Mathas' lithe form, making the Templar look quite small in his bulky armor. His once jet black hair had turned all but gray, his ice blue eyes narrowed with a rage that his handsome face, though worn and creased with age, hid behind a calm, stoic mask. He was standing at his full height, towering above the enemy, his three children cowering behind him. With Peekay at his side, snarling and slavering, a furred mass of rippling muscle, he was quite an intimidating sight to behold.

"Ah, so the ring leader finally shows his face."

"I warned you, Mathas. I warned you never to come near my family," Malcolm's voice was harsh and solemn, it frightened his children to hear him use such a vicious tone.

"All the more reason to bring you in!" The Templar hissed, "You and your pretty mage children,"

"It's me you want. Why don't you just leave them out of this…"

Mathas clicked his tongue thoughtfully, chuckling as he shook his head,

"Now you see, I can't do that. That girl of yours there has used magic against me; and your boy attacked me unprovoked. She's going to the circle, but I'm afraid your boy is a danger to the town. He'll have to be killed."

"If you even so much as look at them-" Malcolm snarled,

"You'll what?"

In that moment, a third voice joined the fray, that of the Knight-Commander. Behind him were half a dozen Templars, armed to the teeth. Olivia's heart lurched, and for a moment she prepared herself to run for her life.

"Ser Mathas, stand down!" The Knight-Commander ordered, "You know you are not to approach this family. They are under special protection."

Mathas protested, stating that it was indeed _he_ who had been attacked by the Hawke children. A booming array of unrest went up as the townsfolk cried farce. They stressed that it had been _Mathas_ to strike first.

"They're bloodmages I tell you!" Mathas screamed, "I saw it with my own eyes! Twelve years ago in the woods. The blood of that girl turned the snow red, and yet she lives!"

The crazed Templar pointed his sword accusingly at Olivia, who flinched away.

"That is _enough_, Mathas!" Malcolm roared,

"Stand down!"

The on-lookers began to heckle the man once more, the square having grown to a deafening roar.

"You're all under her spell! Can't you see?"

Malcolm turned, ushering his children away from the scene. Olivia, however, was suddenly taken by the whisper again.

_There is always my way, Pet._ A soothing murmur, _Look at what he has done to your family… he deserves it. No one would question you… just a flick of the wrist…_

Slowly, Olivia raised her hand. Mathas went rigid and as she began to close her fingers into a fist, the Templar began to shake violently, caught in her crushing prison. There was a ripple of alarm quickly spreading through the crowd, as no one knew what had caused the man to go into a fit, the sudden change in the attitude of the crowd caught Malcolm's attention. He glanced to his eldest and swiftly took hold of her arm, breaking her concentration.

"Olivia… no, _don't_!" He cried,

Too late. With a roar, Mathas broke free from the spell, the shock sending Olivia reeling, only able to stand frozen as Mathas rushed at her; sword drawn.

It happened in a matter of seconds. Malcolm shoved Olivia out of the way, taking the blow of Mathas' body. There was a panic as they grappled, townsfolk running for their lives, Templars rushing to break them up. Someone grabbed Olivia and pulled her away from the fight. Malcolm lost his footing. He slipped and Mathas gained the advantage. Olivia tripped and fell backwards, preventing her from seeing what was happening, but in an instant, she knew something was terribly wrong. A gasp and a cry of pain, the clearing went quiet. The sound of metal tearing through flesh echoed in Olivia's ears; a mass quantity of blood splattering against the dirt, a body collapsing. Time stopped. Who had received the blow? The Templars threw themselves upon the still standing victor and pulled him away. People began to scream frantically,

"Find the healer!"

"Is he still breathing?"

"Someone do something!"

Olivia couldn't register what had happened until she heard Bethany screaming.

_'No…'_

She scrambled to her feet, shouldering her way through the growing crowd of people, frantically trying to force her way through, quickly growing hysterical and shrieking over the noise.

"My father! Not my father! Oh Maker please, not him!"

There, in the dirt, lay her father, pooling in his own blood._ Covered_ in blood. Her heart skipped a beat and for a moment she forgot how to breathe. There was so much blood.

Olivia fell to her knees beside Malcolm and tried to help him sit up.

"Hold on, I can fix this!" She cried frantically, pulling the knife from her father's belt and holding it to her wrist, "You'll be fine, Father! Just hold-"

Her father gave a cry of pain as he moved, hand tightly grasping his daughter's wrist to prevent her from cutting, blood bubbled up and spilled from his mouth and nose.

"No, no! Sweetheart, don't do that!" He gasped,

"But-"

"N-never…never do that…"

With a defeated, shuttered breath, she dropped the knife. Looking him over, Olivia came to grasp the severity of his wounds. The blade had entered his stomach, been twisted and ripped out through his right side. Malcolm was losing too much blood too fast. She didn't want to admit it, she couldn't accept it, but she knew… her father was going to die.

At a loss, Olivia cradled her father in her arms, her face twisted into a mask of pain and sorrow, tears streaking and smearing the blood and dirt that caked her face. Bethany kneeled in a crumpled heap beside her sister, sobbing uncontrollably; Carver came crashing though the crowd, and at the sight of his father he began to scream orders at the others hysterically.

"Find the healer! Someone get my mother! Bethany, put pressure on the wound!"

The boy ripped off his shirt and quickly pressed it into the wound, attempting to stop the bleeding. The thin fabric soon became saturated with his father's blood, but the bleeding would not stop.

Frantic, he looked to his sisters. Tears streaming down his face, Carver's voice broke.

"Bethany? ...Olivia! What are y…h-help me!"

Malcolm wearily reached up and rested his hand on his son's head, taking Bethany's hand with his other. Though he could barely breathe, their father managed to speak.

"Shh, it's alright… it's alright…"

Olivia's breath came in ragged gasps, choked out by her sobbing. Normally she would have been embarrassed, thought to compose herself in public… but her father… not him… _anyone_ but him.

"T-this is…a-all my f-fault…" She gasped,

"…No…"

"I'm s-so sorry…father,"

She felt her heart cracking in two. All the pain of her wounds was forgotten, ebbed and consumed by the mind numbing pain caused by her heartache. It _was_ her fault. If only she had obediently followed her father as he led them away, they would be sitting at home now. She had broken her one rule by listening and obeying the whisper… _Her_ way was never an option. _Never_. How could she be so incredibly stupid? Peekay gave a long low whine, resting his massive head on his paws beside his master.

"Olivia…Olivia, look at m-me…" Malcolm grunted, forcing his voice out with what little breath he had left, "This is n-not…your…fault…" Tears brimmed in his eyes, spilling out over his face, "None of this is your fault…now I-I need you…t-to be s-strong. B-be strong f-for…them."

There was a new energy in the crowd as the Knight-Commander pushed through the crowd with one of the Circle mages, a healer. She was an elderly woman with a kind face and short white hair, pulled back into a stubby ponytail.

The healer kneeled beside Carver, her face wrought with a distressing helplessness. She looked to Olivia with kind, sad eyes and shook her head,

"I'm so sorry child. His wounds are beyond healing magic… there is nothing I can do…"

She stood and backed away, leaving Olivia feeling empty inside. She looked back to her father upon feeling his hand on her face,

"Be a-a good girl…take care of y-your mother an-and s-sib…lings…"

A guttural shriek from behind Olivia marked the arrival of their mother, who collapsed beside her eldest daughter,

"Malcolm! Oh Maker! What have they done to you?" She sobbed, stroking her husband's hair away from his forehead.

Malcolm glanced up at her and smiled,

"He…ey…t-there's m-my…pret…ty g-girl…"

Slowly, Malcolm's eyes closed and he released a final sigh before growing still. Olivia went rigid, unable to move, unable to cry, unable to breathe, simply staring at her father's lifeless face.

Malcolm Hawke died in his eldest daughter's arms three days before her twentieth birthday.

* * *

><p>It was hard to believe that it had been three years already. A year after the death of the head of their family, Carver enlisted in the King's Army, leaving the broken family in shambles for his older sister to pick up. Olivia became nonexistent, after that day there was only Hawke, the eldest of her siblings. She wanted to cut all ties she had with her family, to start a new life free from her heart ache, but her brother's abandonment and the promise she made to Malcolm made that impossible.<p>

Hawke abandoned the art that had led to her father's death, and taken up swordplay, hoping to distance herself from her lineage. With Carver gone, tension in the household rose, Leandra and her eldest suddenly became bitter enemies, fighting constantly with only Bethany to break them up. Hawke was crawling out of her skin, desperate to escape Lothering and her family.

Two years went by in the blink of an eye. King Cailen called for every able bodied person to combat the Blight at Ostagar, but Leandra would not allow her daughters to go. Bethany was a practicing apostate, and Hawke was not emotionally stable, there was no telling what she would do in her state of mind.

The catastrophic battle took place; it's deserter survivors slowly straggling through Lothering as the shadow of the Blight encroached upon the hamlet. A bad break up and her anger at being controlled by her mother led Hawke to take her father's knife to the hair Leandra so treasured, the hair that had been used to hold it's owner captive the day Malcolm died. Hawke needed a drastic change, one she would get sooner than she expected as cutting off her hair was just the beginning.

Not a week later, Carver showed up at their door, bruised, bleeding, and exhausted and the next thing they knew Lothering was gone, Bethany was dead, and they were making their first fateful steps into Kirkwall's gallows.

The loss of Hawke's father had been the most devastating blow she had ever received… a hatred for the Templars and everything they stood for swiftly developed in her. To Hawke, there was no such thing as a good Templar joke… there was nothing good about them at all.

A heavy silence hung over the remaining Hawke siblings. They stood at the bottom of the staircase leading into Hightown, unwilling to make themselves climb it, their goal for the day forgotten by the pain of reopening such an old wound. Hawke felt a lump form in her throat, but she fought the tears and banished them. She would not cry… Olivia could cry, she had spent most of her childhood and teenage years crying, but she was dead now, and Hawke would not waste another second of her life crying.

Carver began to speak, but his voice broke,

"I don't…" He cleared his throat; "I don't feel much like going to the barracks anymore…"

With a weak smile, Hawke managed to force a half-hearted chuckle, "I know, right?"

Silently, the siblings turned and headed for home. It wasn't even nine in the morning and Hawke's day was ruined. _Perfect_.


	6. Breaking and Entering

6

It was one thing for the siblings to argue with Gamlen; in the short time they had known him, they had both come to an agreement in the conclusion that their uncle was an insufferable, miserly clod. But to enter the hovel only to find their _mother_ locked in battle with Gamlen was something different entirely. Now of course, it was not physical battle, the Amell siblings were much to old to have a disagreement turn into an all out brawl as many of Hawke and Carver's fights did, but the screaming match that was occurring in what little living space they were permitted could be heard nearly to the Hanged Man.

"Look, you and your brats have been leaching off of my good graces for some time now, I think it only fair that you make some sort of monthly contribution," Gamlen leered, his weasel-like figure crossed and guarded against his sister.

"My children have been in servitude for a year, Gamlen, _a year_! And now you expect us to pay rent?" Leandra screeched

The rodent of a man quailed at the suddenness of her rage before sheepishly, muttering, "…Perhaps just put something towards food…"

Leandra threw up her hands in defeat, turning to pace the tiny floor space. The Hawke siblings knew this dance well, having seen their mother perform it with many partners; they had each played the role Gamlen filled many times over, their Father had done it, even Lothering's Knight Commander had been subjected to Leandra's enraged pacing on occasion. They knew what would come next, by pacing; their mother was working thoughts over in her head, digging up reasons to be angry just for the sake of being angry. They knew she would reel around and tear Gamlen a new one at any moment, and they knew even better to keep from making eye contact with Leandra, so not to get caught in the cross fire.

"If I could just see Father's will…" Leandra started,

"It's not here, alright? It was read, it went in the vault no one needs to look at it again,"

Hawke could see Carver struggling to restrain himself, to not jump into the argument and thrown in his opinion. She knew he would cave. Carver always caved. It was physically impossible for him _not_ to argue with those who placed themselves above him.

"What kind of daft bastard lets go his family's estate before emptying the safe?"

Gamlen turned a harsh glare on him;

"Watch who you call daft boy,"

As much as she wanted to stay out of family affairs, Hawke had to admit that Carver was right to intervene,

"That struck a nerve…" She purred,

She could see her uncle feeling trapped, backed into a corner like rat under the barn-cat's gaze; he could barely stammer a response, let lone defend himself

"It was old news! Do you think I've been sitting here for twenty five years waiting for your mother to link back to Kirkwall?"

"Who bought the estate Gamlen?" Leandra pressed, "Maybe I can-"

"No one you know, there is nothing any of you can do about it so just drop it!"

With that, the grayed haired rodent of an uncle stalked out of the hovel; headed straight for the Hanged Man, Hawke suspected. With a defeated sigh, Leandra retired to the small bedroom she shared with her children.

It was not until the sound of their mother slumping into the mattress, giving the all clear, did the siblings come together in hushed conspiracy. There was no possible way that their grandparents had died and left Leandra nothing. Hawke as determined to find that will and see what it had to say for herself…one way or another.

And so, for the second time that morning, the Hawke sibling set out for Hightown.

* * *

><p>Hawke was practically skipping with impish delight. It had been too long since her last dance with breaking and entering and possible danger and death. She would not deny that she had a slew of problems that would all line under with the description of "adrenaline junky", but being filled to bursting point with fear laced excitement, to have hear heart pounding so loud that she was deafened by it, and to be fueled by nothing but instinct was all that kept Hawke from clawing our her eyes in agonizing boredom. So what if all that exhilaration came with high chances of mortality? It was better than sitting in Gamlen's hovel, picking fleas off of Peekay all day.<p>

"Hang on," Carver started, "I've just had a thought…"

"Praise Andraste!" Hawke cried, preaching to the passing fops of Hightown, who were less than thrilled to have an eccentric Ferelden refugee yelling at them, one from Lowtown no less, "Good people of Kirkwall! Mark this day on your calendars! My baby brother has had a thought!"

Carver did his best to ignore Hawke's ribbing; she could help but giggle as she watched him bite back the urge to strike her in anger,

"How are we going to know which estate belonged to our Grandparents? And even if we do find out, how are we going to get in? It's not like we can just knock on the door and ask to see the vault..."

Carver had a point. In her excitement over the thought of partaking in illegal activity, Hawke had failed to put together a plan. She, however, was not about to allow her day to be ruined twice.

With a good-natured pat to her brother's robust jaw, she offered him a carefree smirk,

"C'mon Carver, where's your sense of adventure?"

She turned and felt her heart leap into her throat as she came to recognize her surroundings. True, her mind had been on the place all day, her body itching to walk the familiar path to this destination, it had just never occurred to Hawke that desire would put her on autopilot and bring her _here_.

The Chantry was not but a block away, its bells quaking the surrounding area with their solemn noon tolling, the ivy growing on the alabaster walls of the various estates, their elaborate doorways cast in shadow from it. Hawke, however, was interested only in one very specific home, its door almost hidden in the nook where it lay. She stood, indecisively chewing her lower lip. Should she? It had only been roughly twelve hours since she'd last seen him, but that did not stop the butterflies from beating their wings in the depths of her belly, or the twinge of Goosebumps growing swiftly along her arms.

'_Twelve hours too long_…' She told herself

"Is there a reason we've stopped?" Carver muttered sourly,

Hawke took off skipping again, straight for the door. _His_ door. Her heart pounded in her chest like steady tribal drums as she raised her hand, drawing in a steadying breath of preparation before abandoning her inhibitions and, hesitantly, rapping her knuckles lightly against the door.

Were she a proper gentle-lady, Hawke would have waited patiently for someone to answer before politely inquiring as to whether or not it would be appropriate for her to enter. However, seeing as she was indeed not at all patient by any sense of the word and had never been anything close to the sort of person who referred to themselves as a "proper gentle-lady" nor would she ever be, she twisted the handle, threw her weight against the stubborn door and let herself into the dusky mansion, much to the horror of her on-looking sibling.

She allowed herself a moment of silence, listening, waiting for any sign of stirring from deep in the belly of the house;

"Hello up there!" She called a bit too loudly, delighting in the sound of her own voice echoing back at her.

"Shit! Sis, what are you doing?" Carver hissed,

Hawke glanced back at her brother, holding his gaze for a moment for shrugging innocently.

"Being spontaneous,"

He was not amused. Looking around to the sorry state of the foyer with distaste; Carver narrowed his eyes as he gazed up at the many holes in the roof. A dozen golden rays of sunlight streaked through the stagnant air, illuminating the grime encrusted floor; dust motes danced back and forth in the warmth, around the blissful Hawke who had found herself carelessly spinning about the floor, which was now absent of traps much to her delight.

"What if this isn't the estate?"

Hawke stopped spinning to stare incredulously back at her clueless brother, unsure whether to gape at him in disbelief or laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the question.

"It's not."

Carver's stout jaw dropped, hanging open as his eyes bulged in horror. Hawke knew her brother's moral compass was screaming, spinning wildly, willing him turn around and head for North as fast as he could, desperate to get out of the situation his South-bound sister had led him blindly into.

She didn't bother to stifle the amusement she found at her brother's expense. Hawke burst into a noisy fit of jovial laughter, tightly clutching her sides as her body quaked with glee.

"I'm glad you think breaking and entering is so funny!" Carver huffed, "Don't come crying to me when Aveline locks you up!"

If there was one thing that the youngest of the Hawke siblings did not tolerate, it was being laughed at. His sister's uncanny knack at finding joy in things that twisted his insides into knots was one of her less than desirable traits, but Hawke knew this very well. It was the knowledge that the things she did and said made her brother unbearably uncomfortable that made yanking Carver's proverbial chain that much more fun for her.

"Carver! Honestly!" She gasped between giggles, "This is _Fenris'_ house!"

Carver was not in the least bit relieved to find that Hawke knew exactly who's home they had entered uninvited. He started to flail and complain about his sister's lack of common sense, but she had stopped listening by then.

Hawke had to admit that she was slightly disappointed. Normally, such a boisterous ruckus would have caught the elf's attention, putting him on edge and immediately bringing him to investigate; meaning he would explode out of his cave and onto the landing, brandishing some sort of weapon, the light of battle gleaming in his eyes... and skin. However, his lack of reaction and overall presence made it very clear that Fenris was not home.

"…nevermind the fact that you've knowingly led me into the house of someone I've never met. Who even is this _Fenris_?" Carver cried, his brotherly instinct to assert his masculinity and protect his sister from strange men suddenly and obnoxiously present,

"That would be me,"

His voice came from behind Carver. Deep and smooth like warm honey, filling Hawke up to the brim and turning to her into a hot mess of hormones, causing her senses to go numb and lulling her into a blissful dream state. Hawke felt her knees quiver at the sound of his voice, but managed to control her strange urge to sigh distantly. Every ounce of self-control she possessed could not keep the besotted grin from spreading across her face.

Carver whipped around and, very noticeably, recoiled. Whether it was from the fact that Fenris had appeared so suddenly and silently, the rather large great sword that the elf wielded with such ease, or merely Fenris' overall appearance, _namely his scars_, Hawke found herself fuming with embarrassment at her brother's rudeness.

Fenris merely glanced at the boy before shouldering past him and making his way to Hawke, who had recovered and stood beaming stupidly.

"Breaking and entering, are we?" Fenris mused,

With a shrug she replied,

"Maybe I broke in, maybe you forgot to lock your door."

"Maybe _you _didn't lock it on your way out last night,"

Hawke felt her cheeks flush and became all to aware of Carver's disapproving glaring boring into the back of her head. Any second he would demand to know what she was doing in the house of a strange elf late in the night. She quickly changed to subject to prevent that conversation from rearing its ugly, awkward head.

"I've a proposition for you, ser elf," She said, casually twisting a finger in her dark locks.

Hawke immediately wished she had parried to the droll observation with a witty remark instead of blurting the first thing that came to her mind supposing to be "_charming"_, as for a brief moment, annoyance and anger flashed across Fenris' eyes before he banished the emotions.

"I believe that in the Free Marches, the correct vernacular is _Serah_ elf, what would this proposition be?"

. She nonchalantly cracked a careless smile, though internally she was screaming in agonizing embarrassment.

It had been a difficult change. In Ferelden, no matter where you went, whether it be Redcliffe, Lothering, Denerim, or Amaranthine, everyone referred to each other as "ser", from the richest merchant to the poorest beggar. Her father had once described it as common courtesy to show that you did not think yourself better than another. This courtesy had been beaten into Hawke's skull from the moment she was old enough to speak, and in her year and a half since coming to the Free Marches, no native Kirkwaller had been willing to speak with her long enough to explain the appropriate usage of "messere" and "serah." The fact that _Fenris_, of all people, who blamed his lack of knowledge for things such as "_common courtesies_" on his life as a slave, knew the proper terminology made Hawke feel that much more inadequate. She quickly jumped into her proposal so as to hide these feelings.

"It's a beautiful day!" Hawke said, practically shouting so to produce another pleasing echo in the big empty mansion, she twirled in the sunlight streaming through the ceiling to put more emphasis into her proposition. How terribly she wished she were dressed in the regal attire of Orlesian nobility, to be a princess and feel her skirts billow, twist, and twirl about her legs,

"Come out into the world me, partake in our sleuthiness and I will buy you a drink at the Hanged Man,"  
>Hawke felt a strange rush of fulfilling exhilaration rocket through her body as she saw Fenris attempt to hide a smile as she put on her display of feminine glee. As attractive as she found him when in the midst of brooding, the rare, shy smiles he dawned on occasion sent her reeling in girlish delight.<p>

Reestablishing his usual presence of morose pique, Fenris jerked his head back towards Carver who, having been blatantly ignored, was busy glaring daggers at the elf's back and his titillated sister.

"Are you certain _he_ won't mind?"

Hawke scoffed and waved her hand in dismissive incredulity,

"Carver? He's just my little brother, he doesn't care."

Irately, the young man crossed his arms as Fenris turned to size him up.

With an annoyed scoff Carver stood his very tallest;

"Little? I'm taller than you by nearly six inches!"

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm older by nearly six _years_…" Hawke retorted quickly,

She knew the game Carver was playing. He was feeling left out of the moment, over shadowed, small and derisory, all of this amplified by being referred to as the "little brother." His precious manhood was in jeopardy. Carver would now proceed to make another feel small and insignificant in order to raise his self esteem again. The attention to the height difference between the Hawke siblings had been this attempt, but Hawke cared not even the bat of an eye about her height. She was average and in the laundry list of crippling insecurities the girl suffered from; height was not one of them. But her brother knew this; Fenris had been the intended target. The elf was taller than Hawke by several inches, yet shorter than Carver by nearly the same distance. Luckily, Fenris was seemingly unfazed by the failed insult.

"And what exactly does…_sleuthiness_…entail?" Fenris purred, ignoring Carver and raising a dark brow at the ridiculousness of the word.

Hawke delighted in the fact that she had once again found herself locked in a fierce battle of flirtatious wit. These contests were perhaps the one thing that brought her more joy than mortal peril; they were a safer substitute anyhow. Fenris had bested her in their previous duel, but this time she was determined to come out the victor. She silently swore to herself that by the end of the day she would say or do something that would leave him at a loss for words, in awe of her… a difficult task from the get go, it would prove all the more difficult if Carver continued to throw his tantrums, rather, continued to stay in their presence. She would have to ditch him as soon as possible if she wanted to make any progress with her pending relationship with Fenris.

Hawke shrugged and threw up her hands carelessly, rolling her eyes before glancing up at him from under her lashes,

"Thought we'd just snoop around our Grandparent's old estate, break in, see what there is to see, try to reclaim an heirloom or two. You know, for shits and giggles."

"If it is a family matter, I do not wish to intrude…"

"Oh no, by all means, intrude. We _want_ you to intrude."

"_We_, meaning _you_," Carver interjected once more, only to be silenced by his sister.

"Hush Mandible, the adults are talking," She barked, offering Fenris a sidelong smirk and a wink.

The elf responded by allowing a smile to break through his mask. It was condescending and brief but all the more tantalizing, Hawke found that she could not tear her gaze from his lips for what seemed like an eternity, she wondered briefly what it would be like to kiss them. To match her own to his and share the most intimate of touch. Her fantasies, though pleasing to muse upon, were bittersweet, as Fenris had made it quite clear from the start that he was extremely uncomfortable with unnecessary physical contact of any kind.

'_Probably a complex left over from his time as a slave,' _Hawke sighed inwardly, glowing at the concept of the forbidden fruit before her.

Her flight of the imagination was interrupted and broken only when he spoke again.

"Very well. I am your man." Fenris concluded, nodding respectfully to Hawke.

She put on a dapper façade and mockingly curtseyed to Fenris, unable to keep herself from thinking that he would indeed be her man, in more ways than one if she had anything to say about it. Despite whatever complexes he suffered from and all of _Hawke's _inhibitions, Fenris would one day be hers; in her mind this was set in stone.

Then, after a great show of playful eyelash batting, she shouldered past Carver and danced back out into the street.

* * *

><p>It took them several hours of scouring over old tomes in the Viscount's Keep's record room, but eventually Hawke came across the Amell family records, discovering the location of the Amell Estate and the entrance to its notoriously extensive Wine Cellar.<p>

Darktown was as crowded, smelly, and noisy just like always and having to be there had put Hawke in a foul mood… like always

Despairingly, Hawke trudged through the muck and slime that covered the ground and oozed into her boots from worn spots in the soles. The thick, worn, leather boots she wore had come with her all the way from Ferelden and though they were not her favorite pair of shoes, they had sentimental value…not to mention they were the only shoes she owned, and it made her quite irritable that she was going to have to spend what little coin she had on another pair. It was as if each step further into Darktown was a step away from the Deep Roads expedition and by extension another step further from leaving Gamlen's Hovel, the slums of Lowtown, and ultimately Kirkwall.

Though Hawke's disdain for the city was well known among her circle of friends and acquaintances, only she was privy to the fact that with her share of whatever riches were recovered from the Deep Roads, she intended to leave Kirkwall and never look back. In her mind, having to spend coin on something like shoes or a bathtub rather than putting it towards the Expedition was the same as watching her chance at freedom slip through her fingers.

And so it was that her presence in Darktown had not been the only thing to dampen Hawke's spirits, but this knowledge to help snuff out any hope she had at moving on with her life; causing her to trudge on with dragging, moody steps.

Carver and Fenris followed closely behind, wearily keeping an eye on the hordes of refugees they carved their way through. Hawke rolled her eyes as she came to realize that they were no doubt both obscenely paranoid about the moral standards (or lack thereof) of the sewer's residents. Strangely enough, the thought put a misplaced sense of duty to stand up for the poor souls stuck in such a slum; it was not their fault that theft was the resort most of the people here were forced to revert to in order to feed themselves, she told herself as she retrieved her coin purse from the small boy who had just relieved her of it, tucking it back into to pouch strapped to her belt.

Yet another surprising development occurred as Carver was the first to break the silence that stretched only a small enough distance to cover the three of them.

"You know, _Fenris_," He started, peppering his tone with hostile emphasis on the elf's name, "I have a tattoo as well,"

All at once Hawke's heart leapt into her throat and her stomach dropped to her boots. Warning bells were screaming inside her skull as Hawke listened helplessly as her only remaining sibling moved unknowingly into dangerous waters.

"I'm sorry," Fenris, snarled, his contempt for the man beside him suddenly and very painfully obvious, "You have a what?"

Though Fenris had only just met the younger of the two Hawke's several hours before, they had not gotten off on the best of terms. Hawke had kept a close watch on him as the day progressed, discreetly observing as the elf's opinion of her brother formed, changed, and grew. Carver had not been putting on the best show of himself, perhaps unaware that he was indeed on display or just completely indifferent towards the whole situation, either way he had slowly been digging his own grave all day.

He had complained nonstop the entirety of the time they had spent scouring the records of the Viscount's Keep, put up the visage of a moody adolescent child, and playing the archetype of the younger sibling to the letter. Fenris was quite clearly and quickly growing weary of the boy.

"We all got them," He continued, allowing a disgustingly thick layer of self-importance to eek into his words, "At _Ostagar_,"

Hawke cringed; she didn't have to look to know Fenris was rolling his eyes in derision at the mention of the catastrophic battle that had marked the advent of the Fifth Blight. After all, it was _'all these Fereldens talked about,_' as he had put it so graciously once. He would most certainly have an opinion to share later at the Hanged Man, rather he would complain about Ferelden refugees and how they were obsessed with Ostagar. She could hear him now; angrily rambling on and on, growing louder and more forceful as more alcohol entered his system.

_'Sweet Maker!' _She wanted to scream, seizing her brother by the shoulders and shaking him violently, _'Carver! For the love of Andraste and all that is holy, if you value your life in any sense of the term you will stop talking now!'_

Hawke however, growing more and more rigid with tension, walked on as if the conversation occurring behind her was nothing to bat an eye at.

Carver continued to ramble on and on, a toxic cloud of smugness radiating from his person and suffocating any poor soul that happened to get caught in the crossfire,

"It's a Mabari, for strength."

Fenris scoffed and Hawke felt herself begin to internally erode and melt from crushing embarrassment for her sibling.

"Tell me," Fenris began,

His voice was harsh and disdainful. At any moment he would rain punishment and hurt upon Carver's unsuspecting head. It would be a wrath so quick and terrible, so fierce that the boy's pride would not recover for many weeks, if it survived the barrage at all. Hawke braced herself for impact.

"Does it give you the power to tear a man's spine from his body? To reach into a person and unwind their intestines while they still live and breathe? Does your _mabari_ allow you to crush a man's heart with your bare hands?"

A shiver ran through Hawke's body at the macabre, extremely accurate description of what Fenris' markings made him capable of. She thought back to the night she had met him, the ghastly noise of the slaver's heart bursting within him, his agonized cries, the blood that had stained Fenris' claws and how nonchalantly he had cast it away as if it were naught but water. Carver had not been there to witness the brutality of the moment, he didn't know… then again, had he seen what the elf's "_tattoos_" could do, he may not have even bothered to mention his silly mabari in the first place.

"…I can make it bark…" Carver mumbled, discouraged by his complete and blatant defeat, unable to muster a proper retort,

She could see in his voice that, though he had never seen evidence of any of this, he believed with every fiber in his being that Fenris could, and probably would do these things to him if he continued to antagonize him.

"Please don't." Fenris growled.

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose and released an irritated sigh. Bringing these two together had been a serious mistake.

For several painfully awkward minutes they walked on in silence. A sudden thought struck Hawke and sent her reeling in panic. She hoped desperately that Fenris' contempt and complete and total lack of respect for her brother in no way affected his opinion of her. She rounded a corner, a little too quickly, too busily wrapped up in her growing dread to notice that another person had been turning the corner at that exact moment. They collided with enough force to send Hawke staggering backwards as she crashed face first into the buckles of his overcoat.

"Hawke! Sorry, I didn't see you there," The healer stammered,

"Hello, Anders…" Hawke replied, her voice muffled through her hands as she clutched her nose in pain and fought back the moisture forming in her eyes.

"Carver…Fenris…" Anders greeted her companions with noticeably less enthusiasm, only to be matched by savage glares from both men.

Hawke was all to aware of Carver's dislike for the mage, rather for all of her friends, and Fenris' tendency to referring to Anders as "the abomination" made it perfectly clear how he felt about the healer. At the moment, however, that was not the most prominent thing on her mind,

"Maker's Teeth, I think you broke my nose!"

"I'm so sorry!"

Anders had to pry Hawke's hands from her face in order to examine the damage he'd inflicted on her. She could feel hot blood seeping down and over her upper lip, her nose throbbing with pain. She became extremely uncomfortable under the mage's scrutiny, never one to enjoy being stared at in the first place, and attempted to fight as he moved her head to different angles, checking for fractures or breaks. Hawke half wondered if it had swelled to an obscene size, suddenly and painfully aware of Fenris' gaze on the side of her face, and struggled to cover it again.

Carver sniggered from somewhere behind her.

"About bloody time someone knocked you off your high horse."

Hawke, instantly brimming with the volcanic urge to strike her brother, reeled around, tearing her face from Anders' hands, and snarled the first profane thing that came to mind as she usually did when caught in the throws of a mood swing, unable to muster coherent and by extension clever thought.

"Suck my dick, Carver!"

"Oh calm down, will you? You're fine!" He replied, then turning to Fenris, "She's fine," and finally to Anders, " Tell her she's fine,"

Anders placed a hand on Hawke's cheek, gently pulling her back to face him before offering an apologetic smile and handing her the handkerchief he had produced from one of his many pockets,

"Well, you _are_ fine…"

Hawke wiped the blood from her nose and lips, anger ebbing as quickly as it had come before disappearing and turning into good-natured embarrassment. She stared down at the bloodied rag, hesitating before turning her gaze back to the healer, stuffing it into the pouch strapped to her hip.

"Erm… I'll wash this then get it back to you…eventually…"

Anders merely nodded his head in thanks before a quizzical look twisted his haggard features,

"What are you doing down here anyway? I thought you hated Darktown,"

"More than you know," Hawke replied, brushing her hand under her nose and sniffling, "We're looking for the back entrance to the old Amell Estate's wine cellar… you wouldn't happen to know where it is?"

Anders brought a hand up to his face, brows pulled together in deep thought. Hawke took the time to reflect on that through his sleep deprived, paranoid mask, under the dark rings, worry lines, and prickly stubble that lined his jaw, Anders was rather good looking. She hadn't noticed upon first meeting him, as he had reacted defensively upon her entering the clinic, whirling around brandishing his staff, and Hawke didn't usually take time to notice a person's physicality when preparing to defend herself. In truth she hadn't realized he was at all appealing until she had come to his clinic later that night to follow up with him after the whole mess in the Chantry.

She had instructed Varric, Aveline, and Carver to wait outside as the conversation she was about to have with the healer would be painful enough without the presence of non-magic folk… she figured it would be easier to have the talk one on one. It was still a hard subject to discuss, abominations, tranquility, Anders' past and his relationship with the man called Karl; in the end the evening had wound up becoming a lesson for Hawke on how terrible a place Kirkwall's circle of Magi was and by extension all Mage Circles across Thedas. Though the man was an obvious fanatic from the get go, she had been struck with an extreme admiration for how passionate Anders was when it came to the plight of his fellow mages and for several weeks, she could not for the life her drive the man from her mind. She had come very close to seriously considering taking the proper steps to begin courting the mage… until the night she met Fenris. After that, any and all feelings of desire she had ever felt for Anders quickly converted to worship at the Church of Fenris, a religion in which Hawke prided herself in being the High Priestess... she never _could_ resist a man with a dark past.

"Well," Anders started, wrenching Hawke from her thoughts; "There is a sort of…hatch…door…thingy, right outside the clinic, that _might_ be what you're looking for…"

Something about his tone suggested that there was more to this hatch door thingy than he was letting on. A catch, there was _always_ a catch.

"But?" Hawke pried,

"It's sort of a back entrance to an estate that is currently serving as a headquarters for a group of slavers…"

"That's the place," Carver huffed,

Morosely, Fenris contributed, "Unfortunately."

With that, Hawke cracked a triumphant grin and, her mood once again restored, took off in the direction of Anders' clinic.

* * *

><p>"I thought you said this place was supposed to be overrun with slavers," Carver scoffed, Hawke could feel another one of his tantrums coming on.<p>

"I didn't say that," Anders replied, his voice escaping his lips in a defensive whine, "Hawke, when did I say that?"

"You didn't say that," She replied in more of a sigh than anything,

There had indeed been a hatch door thingy outside of Anders' clinic, just as he had said. It had led to a long and winding dimly lit hall, which in turn opened up to the largest wine cellar Hawke had ever seen, not that she was any great _connoisseur_ of wine cellars. Three rooms lined from ceiling to floor with cobwebs, dust, rotting vellums of old trade manifestos, and shelves by the dozen of various wines. Thrice they scoured the rooms, looking for any sign of a waiting ambush, of a stray enemy, of any pending danger at all. They, much to Carver's dismay, had found that, other than the rats, were the only living things in the cellar. Upon advancing a staircase, Hawke had come across another, smaller, room filled with various pieces of old furniture, portraits, a very large chest, and the Amell family crest.

The two men continued to bicker about what Anders may or may not have said, all the while Hawke fidgeted with the lock of the large chest. She had no lock picking skill, but she had seen Varric and Isabela perform the task a thousand times over; how hard could it be?

The fifteen minutes she had spent tinkering with the hairpin before it snapped in the keyhole proved just how difficult lock picking was for someone not trained in the art.

"Shit!" She snarled, kicking the chest and then proceeding to rattle the lock like a maniac,

"Having trouble?" Fenris voice came from behind, he sounded all too amused at the sight of the fit Hawke was busy throwing. Were she not completely smitten with the elf, she would have had half a mind to smack the smile off of his face, though it occurred to her that he probably was not smiling in the first place,

"You could say that,"

He couched beside her, his body inches from her own. Hawke instinctively drew in a startled, sharp breath as he turned his evergreen gaze upon her in a sidelong glance,

"Do you mind…?" He purred,

Unable to function under their close proximity, she merely shook her head dumbly. Fenris looked back to the chest, examining it briefly, running a hand over the wooden top and iron hinges before curling a first and bringing it down onto the chest with impressive force. The chest splintered and caved around his fist, and as he retracted himself, standing and stepping away from the now destroyed trunk, Hawke found herself beaming in impish delight,

"What would I do without you?" She giggled, digging into the wooden splinters.

"Find an alternate way of opening this chest," He replied flatly,

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that?"

The chest contained a tome of legal papers, letters of correspondence between Amell family members, most of which were addressed to Leandra from one Guenevere Amell, and finally the will. Caver snatched the parchment from his sister's hand before she could even finish announcing its presence. She would have remembered to be angry with him, had something at the bottom of the chest not caught her eye. Though unframed, creased and faded from years of sitting at the bottom of a chest, untouched, it was still a very clear portrait of a family of five. A man and a woman with their three children; the youngest being a set of fraternal twins, a boy and a girl who could not have been more than two years old, and the eldest a girl who appeared to be around eight, her long black hair hanging messily around her shoulders, and her ridiculous grin revealing the absence of her two front teeth.

Hawke quickly flipped the portrait to see an inscription, though faded, scrawled in very familiar handwriting;

_To Mother and Father, with Love,_

_ Leandra, Malcolm, Bethany, Carver, and Olivia. _

"What's that?" Carver said suddenly, wrenching Hawke back to reality.

She quickly stuffed the portrait into her pouch and stood, casually running a hand through her short, dark locks.

"Nothing,"

There was a moment of silence where Carver stared long and hard at his sister, attempting to read her. Hawke stared back at him, unwavering under his gaze. If there was one thing she could do without fail, it was hide her emotions from others. No one had ever successfully broken through her defensive wall; her brother of all people would not be the first.

He finally turned towards the door, calling over his shoulder,

"All right, lets go then shall we? Before the slavers decide to show up,"


	7. Magistrate's Orders

**_( Hi readers! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update, thank you so much for being so patient with me! ~ 3 )_**

7

For the third time that day, Hawke was ascending the steps that led into Hightown.

She had managed to break free of her brother's presence, casually excusing herself to the Hanged Man and sending Carver ahead to make the terms of the will known. He, however, demanded she accompany him back to the hovel. A back and forth volley of half hearted excuses parried with rather convincing arguments pertaining as to why she should come home rather than proceed to the tavern ensued, and for once Carver was winning. Seeing her chance for escape swiftly slipping away, Hawke panicked. She threw up her hands and shouted… rather _screamed_,

"Carver! I'm going to the Hanged Man, end of story, goodbye!"

Then, turning on her heel as if she had _not_ just shrieked at the top of her voice for no apparent reason, she started towards the tavern, gesturing for Fenris and Anders to follow, and while they fell quickly into step after her, both were most certainly questioning the tiny fraction of sanity they knew Hawke to have.

The youngest Hawke pelted his sister's back with a barrage of complaints, obscenities, and insults, but all went unheard, as she had just finished convincing herself that she no longer cared about what Carver thought of her, whatever their Grandfather's will had to say, or for the matter _anything_ that circled back to dealings with her family. They had the will; whatever had or had not been left was for them to handle with as much grace or there lacking as they cared. Hawke would be leaving Kirkwall as soon as her funds allowed it; she saw no reason to involve herself in affairs that did not concern her immediate future. All she wanted was to drink, to laugh until her eyes spilled over with tears and her ribs threatened to burst open, and flirt shamelessly with a man who would almost certainly never return her feelings. For the moment, life revolved around courting the stoic elf at her side. She trembled with anticipation at the thought of it.

"Thirsty?" She mewed, her face splitting into a wide grin,

Fenris threw her a smooth, sidelong glance, his mouth quirking up in the crooked smirk that drove Hawke crazy; however, before he could respond Anders sighed despairingly, the healer having mistaken Hawke's advance to be directed at the both of them.

"Afraid the last of my coin went to the International Bank of Isabela,"

She would have corrected his mistaken understanding of the point of the question, if only Hawke had not come to disheartening realization that her side-pouch felt impossibly light. A heavy cloud of shame passed over her as memories of the catastrophic game of Wicked Grace she had been goaded into participating in the night before came crashing back to her like the ocean's waves upon the gates of the Gallows. So, she merely echoed the healer's sigh.

The day had taken so many twists in her mood that she was starting to feel nauseous, something needed to be done to rectify her dampened mood. In one last attempt not to allow her attitude to be sullied, Hawke cleared her throat and turned away from the Hanged Man without missing a beat, her destination changed to Hightown, her spirits impossibly high for someone lacking so much coin.

"To the Chanter's Board!"

"I'm expected to come along then?" Fenris groused.

His tone was condescending but there was still the hint of flirtatious competition… or (more likely) perhaps Hawke had imagined it…

"Only if you're not sick of my company," She replied, pouting her lips innocently,

The elf didn't respond, merely cast his gaze to the ground in an attempt to bite back one of his shy smiles and suppress a chuckle of what Hawke hoped with every fiber of her being was endearment,

Anders' stammered after them, his voice ringing strangely anxious as a hurried response escaped his lips and passed between Hawke and Fenris like an iron curtain,

"Er, I think I'll tag along too... the clinic isn't going to earn its _own_ upkeep…"

Hawke had to bite her lower lip to keep from groaning. It was not that she didn't enjoy the mage's presence; only that he had impeccable timing when it came to cock blocking her. Either he was doing it on purpose or he could not take a hint if his life depended on it. She forced herself to put on a smile that was halfway genuine and shrugged,

"Why not? The more the merrier,"

Her cheer faded rather noticeably as the sentence ended, but _again_, she didn't care. Today was about furthering her relationship with Fenris, not about wondering if Anders would notice her blatant passive aggression. She cast away the cloud threatening to burst open and drown her festivities by assuring herself that an extra pair of hands would make any job they acquired at the Chanter's Board easier and by extension go by faster, which meant she would get paid sooner.

The Chanter's Board, however, had something else in mind…

"Dammit!" Hawke growled, staring up at its empty face.

The local Chanter stood off to the side, offering her an apologetic smile, unable to voice his sympathy due to there being nothing in the Chant of Light that even came even remotely close to, "_I'm sorry there's no work today, maybe next time champ_". Even if there was, Hawke did not want to hear it.

She turned sullenly to her companions, looking for suggestions.

"Maybe Solitivus has work?" Anders muttered, scratching the back of his neck.

Hawke gave an extremely unlady-like snort of disgust; the day's attempt to keep her happy would not allow such an option.

"He's in the _Gallows_…"

"Ah… right, I forgot…Templars…"

Anders was not privy to _why _Hawke hated Templars so, but she was grateful that he accepted her hatred with open arms, never bothering to inquire why she felt this way… Fenris was not as understanding,

"What reason do _you_ have to fear the Templars?" He scoffed, casting a hard, prying gaze upon Hawke,

Feeling suddenly and strangely threatened, she grew defensive, furrowing her brow in distaste.

"I'm not afraid of them!" She fired back, "I've just… never met one who wasn't a complete and total prick…"

"That is how you justify your support for mages? Because you think Templars are _mean_…?"

Hawke was taken back, offended by the sudden bite in his tone, absent of playful flirtation as if it had never been there. She almost laughed out loud as she came to realize he was mocking her. Hawke met his evergreen glare with her own icy incredulity. Who did this elf think he was? She could feel her armor slowly building itself up around her body, the need to defend herself against the threat advancing upon her swiftly growing. He knew nothing about her, not about her past or the pain she had suffered at the hands of the Chantry's precious knights, or for that matter, what they had robbed her of. How dare he accuse her of misplaced allegiance?

There was then the familiar low hiss, the vibrations along her skull, the dull, inaudible murmur in her ear. It tempted her, dared her, fueled her sudden incorrigible urge to reach out and strike Fenris with every ounce of strength she possessed, to hurt him before he could hurt her.

Then, with a pang of guilt, Hawke realized that he had not hurt her nor had he reason to do so in any sense of the word. Fenris had made no advance to inflict harm upon her person, and most likely had no intention of doing so at any time, he had done nothing wrong, merely expressed distaste in where Hawke placed her loyalties. There was no reason for her to get so worked up about a simple conflicting opinion. She tried to remind herself that Fenris was not a threat, that she thoroughly enjoyed his company, that she dabbled in romantic fantasies about him, and that she had _asked_ him to accompany her today. The voice in the back of her mind, however, disagreed.

_He doesn't understand, he can never understand your reasons. He doesn't see what the Templars are capable of, what they have done to us… he wants to hurt mages, he wants to hurt_ you_… Pet… _She hissed,

Hawke, desperate to keep her current absence of sanity hidden from her companions, turned away from Fenris, shaking her head in an effort to rid herself of the murmur. This action, however, only caused her to become terribly lightheaded. She swayed dangerously on her feet, Anders' steadying hands tightly gripping her shoulders the only thing keeping her from collapsing.

"Hawke, what's wrong? Are you well?" He said in a hurried, frantic voice,

"I…I'm fine," She lied, the dizzy spell having ebbed. She shrugged the mage off and took a careful, experimental step on wobbly legs, "Maybe we should just-"

She was cut off.

* * *

><p>Anders didn't see the arrow, only a black blur passing between him and Hawke.<p>

It sliced through the air silently, burrowing itself deep into the Chanter's Board with deadly accuracy, missing Hawke's face by a hairsbreadth.

He had been too stunned to react in time, which was not a problem for him as he was in no danger of being impaled, _Hawke_, however, had not been as graceful. She produced a high-pitched yelp of alarm and threw herself back, stumbling over her unstable footing and barreling into Fenris. Anders could not help but wince as the audible sound of her head crashing hard against the elf's breastplate echoed through out the Chantry courtyard with a loud "_clang_", from his professional medical opinion, he noted regrettably that it was most certainly going to be the catalyst for the mother of all headaches in an hour or so. Fenris reacted by bringing his hands up to her shoulders to steady the girl (and himself for that matter), but in his desperate attempt to stay up righted, he clung too tightly to her, causing the metal of his clawed gauntlets to dig deep gouges into Hawke's arms.

It is said that the curse that flew from her lips could be heard from the darkest stretch of the Kocari Wilds in Ferelden, all the way up to the High Reaches in Tevinter; it has been said that even to this day the expletive can still be heard faintly echoing off of the stony caverns found in the Hunterhorn Mountains, horrifying passers by of all calibers of faith. Never had Andraste's name been used in such a foul, explicit manner, and never would it again. It had been the swear to end all swears.

The courtyard went silent, a hollow absence of sound save for Hawke's explicit language bouncing off of the walls, amplifying itself and ringing clear and true.

Anders' suddenly became aware of himself openly gaping at the horrendous obscenity that had just escaped the lips of the woman he loved. For nearly the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words. How could something so beautiful produce something so…ugly? True, Hawke was not the most delicate flower in the garden, she drank, swore, and enjoyed the most depraved and crude humor imaginable, but never in a thousand years did he _ever_ expect to hear something such as the brutal assault to his ears come out of her mouth; the outburst was enough proof for him that she had been spending much too much time with Isabela and Varric; they had tainted her good nature with their tavern banter. Then again, though he had not but the effect the wiles of her charm produced on him to prove so, Anders assured himself that Hawke had to have been good by nature, a polite, elegant, graceful swan, dancing in the moon bathed alabaster courtyards of Hightown. That was where, in _his_ mind, she belonged, swathed in gowns made from the finest Orlesian silks and encrusted with the most precious of Antivan jewels, surrounding herself with the most refined and gentile of company; he could not fathom seeing her as anything else, even if that particular image of her was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Hawke deserved better than the hand she had been dealt.

The horrified gasps from the Chantry goers, the Grand Cleric among them, fell on deaf ears as Hawke tore herself from Fenris' clutches, the sleeves of her blouse catching and tearing in his gauntlets in the struggle, drew her blade and threw herself forward, ready to do battle with the man who had fired the arrow, all the while projectile vomiting a stream of swears, threats, and curses that would make her mother's hair stand on end.

Anders reacted with incredible speed, tearing after Hawke, catching her by the waist and, in an impressive feat of strength for a mage, hoisted her over his shoulder. Her blade clattered to the ground as she kicked, screamed and thrashed at him, her rage blinding her to the growing crowd of Templar gazes she was attracting. Anders turned to the Grand Cleric and did his best to turn on what little charm he had left from the man he had been before Justice.

"Please excuse my friend, Your Grace, she's not well," A said with what he hoped was what people used to call his "winning smile",

The Grand Cleric merely nodded, curtly if not sympathetically to the _"ill" _Hawke, then turned on her heel and headed quickly up the Chantry steps, Hightown's more religious residents breaking off and going their own separate ways to spread the news of the outbreak that had just taken place to their friends and neighbors.

The mage turned from Hightown, doing his best to withstand the beating he was taking from the incapacitated and enraged Hawke; she was shouting something about being manhandled when Anders caught Fenris' gaze and nodded, an unspoken agreement to get out of Hightown as fast as they could manage, before he kicked Hawke's blade to the elf.

They fell in step towards the stairs that led to Lowtown off to the left of the Chantry. Hawke, though no longer shouting, was still very noticeably upset, grumbling incoherently to herself like a child.

"I can't believe you just said that…" Anders said shaking his head scornfully,

"In front of the Grand Cleric no less," Fenris murmured,

Though not as reactionary, the elf seemed to be harboring feelings of equal astonishment towards their friend's outburst. It had been totally and completely inappropriate for her to react so volcanically, then again Hawke was known for her explosive mood swings.

_Amazing,_ Justice mused, _The girl may actually be madder than you are… perhaps you are better suited for each other than I have anticipated._

Anders unsuccessfully tried to repress a smile; for once the spirit's commentary of his life was not an expression of disapproval for the mage's laundry list of terrible choices he had made.

"That asshole did it on purpose, he deliberately tried to hit me!" Hawke insisted before beginning to fidget again, "Will you put me down please!"

The healer obliged, placing the pouting girl back on her feet before brushing her messy black locks from her eyes. Fenris, who had briefly disappeared, stepped up and handed Hawke her blade, all the while discreetly stuffing a sheet of paper into the pouch attached to his belt,

"What's that?" Hawke inquired,

"Nothing…shall we?"

Anders watched in despair as any remaining feelings of anger Hawke harbored for Fenris ebbed and disappeared. She smiled for him and jerked her head to the right, affirming that they "_should indeed_".

The mage felt himself growing desperately annoyed with Hawke, the stress she was causing him was, instead of an ulcer, forming a painfully raw lump of throbbing jealousy in the pit of his stomach. It was not that he didn't enjoy her presence; only that she had an uncanny knack for thwarting all of his attempts to eject Fenris from her life. All of this shameless flirting in his presence was causing Anders real _physical _pain. Either she was deliberately toying with him or she was just _that_ clueless about his feelings for her. Truth be told, he didn't wish for either scenario to be the case. All he wanted was Hawke's anger to ebb as swiftly as it had when _he_ looked at her, to have her smile in that special way for _him_. For Hawke to let him love her unconditionally, through good or ill, without worry of losing her to someone else. Simple requests, yet in Anders' case, some things were just too much to ask of the Maker, no matter how simple.

The three again began their trek out of Hightown, Anders all the while launching into a lecture on Chantry courtyard etiquette in an attempt to keep Hawke's attention off of Fenris and his mind off of the way she kept glancing at the elf.

"Look, how about we make a new rule, while we're in the Chantry; we use a more monochrome palate of language. Hmm? At least to stay away from Templar scrutiny,"

Hawke rolled her eyes defiantly but agreed;

"Yes, all right _Mum_…"

* * *

><p>Hawke never liked being told what she should or should not do, but Anders had a point. After being thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and having her temper tantrum, she had become increasingly and uneasily aware of the Templar gazes she had pulled in their direction. Leaving Hightown was the better idea… perhaps Varric knew of work to be had.<p>

"You there! _Ferelden_!" A man's voice rang out,

Hawke went stiff, her fists curling as her anger returned. Though she accepted that she should have been a little prouder when it came to representing her native heritage in a foreign land, Hawke could not help but feel that there was something extremely demeaning in being referred to as "Ferelden", as if the Kirkwallers had adopted it as some sort of derogatory name.

She turned a hateful gaze on the short, wiry, middle-aged man beckoning to her. His long grayed hair was slicked back behind his ears and he was dressed in ridiculously elaborate crimson finery, festooned in ruffles and intricate designs from head to toe, pantaloons included. He stood with his hands behind his back, his head tilted towards Hawke and her companions yet his body quirked to the side, standing with his legs apart, one knee bent up on his toes. Why these Hightown fops had to pose every chance they had would forever be beyond Hawke's capacity for understanding.

Biting back her urge to respond to the man with an exaggerated courtesy and a shout of "_fuck you_", she waved for Fenris and Anders to linger. Hawke heaved a hefty sigh and trudged over to the flamboyant man.

"Yes, _serah_, what can I do for you?"

The man recoiled in revulsion. Hawke knew immediately that she had found herself in a situation where "messere" had been the correct vernacular, but under the circumstances seeing the man before her flail indignantly from being referred to by a title lower than he thought he deserved was extremely amusing. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing albeit allowing a smile to quirk her lips.

"_I_," He began dramatically after composing himself, "Am a city _magistrate_!"

"How wonderful for _you_," Hawke retorted flatly, not caring to hide the mockery in her tone,

The magistrate peered at Hawke over his beakish nose with beady, black button eyes, his mouth turned down in a scowl,

"I've heard talk of you 'round town, they say you can take care of things _on the sly,_"

"Really now, is that what they say?"

The man continued as if she had not even spoken,

"You would be well rewarded, should you choose to accept the job, and of course it can never hurt to have the influence of a city Magistrate on your side, especially for someone of your…_heritage_,"

Hawke's heart skipped a beat, she felt her face light up with the opportunity of coin and very suddenly regretted having been so impertinent towards the man. Completely overlooking the fact that she had just been blatantly insulted; she crossed an arm behind her back discreetly, waving wildly for Fenris and Anders' attention, continuing to pantomime to her companions, not sure if they were even looking, as the magistrate drawled on about the details of the job he needed doing. She was rubbing the pad of her thumb across her fingertips in what she hoped was a coherent sign for being paid when the magistrate cleared his throat, forcing Hawke to realize that her gaze had wandered,

"So sorry, you were saying?"

"I need this man brought in alive, the guards have cornered him in some ruins just outside the city, I've sent back up but…" He stopped suddenly as if choosing not to disclose some shred of information about the circumstances of the job, "Well, you know how these things go,"

Hawke in turn chose not to confront the magistrate about his peculiar behavior and merely offered a good-humored chuckle, all the while pulling a map out of her pouch.

"Yes, quite. Would you be so kind as to mark the location of the ruins on this map?" She purred, offering him the vellum and a stick of charcoal.

He drew a circle with an overly exaggerated flourish, handed the map back to Hawke and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

She stood awkwardly for a moment, debating with herself over whether she should or should not curtsey, then, deciding against it, turned stiffly and awkwardly loped back to her on looking companions.

"Let me guess, he's offered you a lesson in Hightown etiquette?" Fenris mused, his voice tinged with a bewildered attempt at lighthearted amusement.

It fell flat and came out a gruff snarl, as nothing about the elf's person was in danger of being anywhere in the vicinity of lighthearted. Hawke blinked sluggishly at him, the strangeness of Fenris' manner catching her off guard and leaving her at a loss for words.

Finally she shrugged.

"Well, if offering me a job falls under that category…sure!" She responded, managing to pull the corner of her mouth up into a crooked smile.

She pushed the map into his chest and cheerfully headed towards the nearest staircase leading from Hightown,

"What's this circle supposed to bring us to?" Anders called after her, peering at the map over the elf's shoulder,

"Easy work!" Hawke cried, "_Come on kids_, lets get going!"

And just like that, she was back up on top again.

* * *

><p>Fenris had a headache.<p>

Not that it was anything new; he had lived in a state of almost constant pain of varying degrees ever since the introduction of lyrium to his body; for as long as he could remember in actuality. All memories of the incident and anything of his life before had been wiped clean from his memory, save for the pain. That he remembered to the day as if it had occurred not but a fortnight prior. Almost as if he had been cracked open, filled to bursting point with molten magma, and welded back shut, Fenris had spent the better part of a month after receiving his markings in agony, writhing on the mat he had been provided to him as a bed, crying out into the darkness, pleading to be put out of his misery as whatever had been left of his previous life died and fell away from him.

Searing agony faded to throbbing ache faded to extreme discomfort and finally to a dull twinge. Though healed, he was never absent of pain, never stricken with enough to drive him over the edge but never able to relax because of it either. Like any victim of a severe trauma, he had his good days and _very_ _bad_ days.

On a good day, the pain made itself present in a headache, a twinge in his bones and joints, tenderness of the skin and muscles. A surely mood would follow suit giving him no tolerance for difficult people, irrationality, lighthearted shenanigans or any of the silliness that came with them. On his good days he brooded. Then there were the very bad days. On these days it was as if his burns were a lit once again, the lyrium actively coursing through his body like liquid fire making the dimmest candle light, the softest padding of feet, the most tender contact unbearable. The only relief he had ever found from these days of agony was to take to draw the shades, take to bed, and try and sleep through the pain. Of course getting to sleep was nearly an impossible feat in itself as even the thinnest of blankets caused extreme discomfort; he never slept long as closing his eyes brought the nightmares bringing with them something he preferred the pain of his scars to; fear.

These days always occurred without fail after he had tapped into the unbridled power he had been given, after phasing into a ghost of lyrium, pushing himself into the unknown.

Today was not one of those days, today was a good day, and so today he had a headache. Today he brooded, a facade that was proving strangely difficult to keep up in the presence of his lady companion.

The sky was darkened from overcast clouds by the time they reached the area the circled on Hawke's map. It should have occurred to Fenris that there was no reason a city magistrate should be learned in the landscape surrounding Kirkwall and that they would end up wandering the coast in circles for the better part of two hours looking for the ruins, he had however been far too busy trying to keep up with his brooding and drive the incessant and relentless thoughts of Hawke from his mind.

She was unlike any woman he had ever met. Loud and rambunctious, she could be described as mercurial at best, not to mention she was absolutely and completely insane. Her brand of crazy was special, however, very unlike the insanity that gripped Danarius, a joy in snuffing out life, the way he reveled in bloodshed, pain, and the pitiful cries of whatever had been unlucky enough to find itself in the wake of his wrath. Hawke's notions, ideas, and views on the world were what really caused Fenris to question her sanity.

There was no denying that she was dangerously naïve, quick to trust and befriend anyone who so much as smiled at her, regardless of the threat they posed. Fenris' mind moved briefly to the young Dalish witch Hawke spent much of her free time with. An admitted bloodmage, Merrill refused to see the error of her ways, partaking in so vile an art simply for the sake of lost culture, and yet Hawke embraced her with nothing but love and acceptance, completely overlooking her monstrosities.

He forced himself to perish the thought as it brought him nothing but violent feelings of contempt for the she-elf; for mages and their terrifying power in general. With a particularly potent twinge of pain to the base of his skull, Fenris was brought back to Hawke's inane comment about the personalities of Templars, pulling a groan of exasperation from the depths of his person. At first, he had not been able to register what she had said, unwilling to believe that someone he had consenting in lending his services to would dare utter something so absurd. He had waged quite the battle with himself to keep from seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her violently to try and knock some sense into her.

And yet, with a start, he realized that he trusted her. She must have had a valid reason for clinging steadfast to such a ridiculous belief; reason enough to trust mages and turn her from the templars as his own experiences had done the opposite.

He furrowed his brow and shook his head sharply;

_'No,'_ Fenris told himself, _'No reason is enough to justify trust in mages. Hawke is wrong, get a hold of yourself.'_

He had argued with himself like so most days as of late. Something about this woman caused immense turmoil in what he thought to be his unshakable mindset. He trusted her and he couldn't explain why.

Fenris had spent many a night since they had met marveling at the fact that after years of running, hiding out, unable to grow close to any one, _unwilling_, the first person he would put his trust in would be the young woman who was incapable of taking anything seriously, who had brandished a strange crimson slash of war paint across the bridge of her nose the night they met, who had been the first in many years not to recoil at the sight of him… the first to smile for him and in turn make _him_ smile. Just thinking about it forced the elf to clench his teeth tightly to keep his lips from quirking.

It however did nothing to banish her from his mind. Hawke was the most aggravating person he had ever met; always poking and prodding, inserting herself in places and matters did not concern her; badgering him about personal matters, asking questions he could not begin to answer if his life depended on it and constantly dragging him into situations that he was morally uncomfortable with. She was related to an immature and assholic man-child, surrounded herself with depraved cretins, and continued to utter what was most likely the foulest language known to man, but she had also proven herself to be uncommonly kind to those in need, whether they be less fortunate than herself or much better off. Always trying to lighten a mood, her infectious smiles and cheer spreading to those around her like the plague; Hawke was, for lack of a better term, _charming_. Maddeningly so.

This only made her viewpoint on mages that much harder for him to come to terms with.

It was painfully obvious how Hawke favored Fenris, the way she stole glances at him, stared when she thought he wasn't looking, and how she smiled almost as if she were smiling for him alone. This only filled Fenris with that much stronger of an incorrigible anger. If she was so bloody fond of him, what made him so special? What made her think she was so special as to believe that she could insert herself into his life? Why wouldn't she see reason? Time and time again, Hawke continued to place her trust in mages, surrounding herself with them and brandishing no respect for the danger they posed to her, no understanding of the terrible things they were capable of doing to her and those she loved. In the midst of magic, she was like a child with a shiny new toy, waving it wildly about. With a shudder, Fenris knew that someday all of the magic Hawke was in awe of would explode in her face, most likely literally so. There would be no telling when or where the event would take place, but there was no denying that it would happen, especially with a personality like hers; a wrong choice made, one bad move, a joke that hit a particularly sore spot, and one of her pet mages would turn on her, bite her as sure as the family dog; the creature you had trusted for to stay faithfully by your side day after day and to watch over your loved ones, who for no reason at all attacks as if you were its most hated enemy.

A sharp breeze had picked up; the frigid sand against the soles of his bare feet sent chills coiling through his lithe body, amplifying the twinge in his bones to a mind numbing ache that echoed in his ears and vibrated off of his skull. Fenris was not accustomed to such bi-polar climates. Tevinter naturally being a rather warm place year round, he had never experienced anything similar to three month long rainy seasons and snowfall in the winter. He had quickly found that he did not enjoy cooler climates; the cold exacerbated his…condition. He shivered slightly beneath his armor, the chilled air burning his lungs with every breath.

Fenris looked on at Hawke, strangely jealous of her levity as she trudged merrily along, humming to herself as if she had not a care in the world, not for the wind, the cold, the darkened sky. He supposed it would make sense that she would be comfortable in weather such as this; she was Ferelden, used to the cold. He had never been to her native land, but anyone who had described it did so exactly as the next person did. Brown, cold, and heavy with the scent of trash and wet dog.

Charming. To grow and mature in such a dreary place, it made sense for Hawke to be so… strange…

Fenris suddenly found himself in awe of how she seemed not to have even a second thought for the drastic change in moods she had gone though as the day had progressed. True, it had been slightly daunting to see her move from one end of the attitudinal spectrum to the other with such swiftness, but just as he knew she was accustomed to the cold, something told Fenris that her mood swings should not have surprised him. _Why_ this was had, for the moment, escaped him. Another symptom left over from lyrium fusion was a habit of forgetfulness. If he was not careful, if he did not consciously make an effort to remember something, names, dates, and minor details would slip from his mind as if they had never been there. He was ashamed to admit to himself that he could not for the life of him remember Hawke's name for the first few weeks he had known her. Stressful enough as it was after realizing that he'd offered his services to a woman who's name he did not remember, she had taken a liking to him and engaged him in conversation far too often for his comfort. He had spent many a day following Hawke en route to various jobs, ignoring her companions as he repeated her name in his head, over and over, in attempt to make it stick. This was why he told himself he could not drive her from his mind. Weeks of thinking nothing but "_Hawke, Hawke, Hawke, Hawke_," had branded her into his brain, there was no forgetting her now.

Fenris did not bother to do the same with the others; they all eventually found their ways into his memory, mostly because of how much Hawke talked about everyone else.

She did talk an awful lot… wait… what had he been thinking about? Fenris chewed the inside of his lip in frustration as he wracked his mind for the tiny sliver of information that was attempting to elude him, back tracking in an effort to uncover it.

'_Okay, lets see… Hawke talks a lot…couldn't remember her name, she has mood swings, can't remember… something… shit, where was I going with this?'_

As if through some divine intervention, he remembered, the tiny scrap of information cast from it's hiding place in the shadows. He knew someone had warned him of her temper; now the question was _who_ had given him this information…

_'Ah yes, now I remember.'_

Varric! _Varric_ had warned him of Hawke's mood swings from the get go, of Hawke's touchy feeling tendencies, her assertive nature, and her extremely short temper. Fenris had been in the Hanged Man, an inebriated Isabela had been harassing him when Varric swooped in and "rescued" him so to speak. Really, Fenris had been trying to leave when he had been cornered and somehow found himself sharing a table and conversation with the dwarf.

Coincidentally, the mouthy storyteller had compared Hawke to the Free Marches' weather patterns.

_"Hawke always starts off mild, a little on the warmer side," _He had put it_, "Then all of a sudden, _BAM_, she's burning you alive, could make you sweat just by looking at you. Before you can even blink Hawke's gone so cold that you swear you could see your breath in front of your face. She can get dark and stormy faster than you could say your own name, never known her to push things to rain though… waterworks just aren't her thing, but there's a first time for everything, right? Have no fear, Elf, these things never last, with Hawke the sun always comes back out, it's just a matter of time,"_

Fenris could not appreciate the perfection of the analogy until he had spent more time with the girl, but as time passed on she lived up to the dwarf's description beautifully. Hawke started out warm, excited for the day and what lay in store, playfully flirtatious; then something would happen, some event trivial or not that would set something off inside of her, turning her cold unwelcoming. Mirroring the weather, Fenris had discovered that a personality like Hawke's was dangerous for him; more often than not her antics and mood swings made him angry, and anger always seemed to exacerbate his…condition, forcing him into one of his many headaches, such as the one that he suffered that very moment.

He had not been aware of his lingering gaze on Hawke's person until he saw her balk. Something had caught her eye, stopped her in her tracks, and forced her to hesitate. He watched curiously as she curled her hands into fists, drew in a deep, steadying breath, and pressed on, her gait far more rigid than it had been moments before. Something was not right, a challenge, an obstacle in the road ahead. The elf readied himself for whatever lay in store, drawing up his guard.

It was not until they were upon the guardsmen that he knew why her behavior had changed so, causing him to grind his teeth in exasperation. All that for nothing. Fenris fought a particularly harsh wave of pain pulsing behind his eyes.

"Ho there, gentlemen!" Hawke piped up, her charm layered on in thick, armored layers to keep her apprehension at bay.

A blonde guard with a face that looked as if it had been flattened by a sledgehammer turned to face her, his small eyes narrowing at the sight of her ragtag entourage,

"So you're the reinforcements the magistrate promised," He grunted, his words muffled by his strange manner of speaking.

Fenris sighed inwardly as Hawke did her best to stifle a giggle. How could someone be so easily amused by something as trivial as a speech impediment?

"Erm," She grunted, clearing her throat to mask the snicker, "Sure, whatever floats your boat,"

The guardsmen grimaced sorely at her, leaving them in a rather awkward silence as he seemingly chewed over whether or not he should retaliate. The man could not have been too bright, Fenris assumed this must have been the reason for the prolonged pause that followed before the man jerked his thumb towards a cave that lay a dozen or so feet beyond him.

"The man you're looking for is hold up in the ruins-"

"That bastard's to be brought in alive after all he's done?" An outraged voice interjected.

It belonged to a haggard, middle-aged elven man. As he came closer, shouldering angrily past Anders and standing as tall as he could manage in attempt to meet the guardsman's height, Fenris took in the elf's appearance. His skin was tough and calloused, years from working relentlessly at his trade most likely, an assistant blacksmith or a leather worker. A city elf, probably from the Alienage, his gait and physicality suggested that though his face was wrought with lines and his hair was starting to gray, he was most likely much younger than he appeared. Fenris had seen this happen to many of the slaves under the employ of various magisters. Stress and terrible living conditions would force the skin to toughen and become calloused, giving it the appearance and consistency of unrefined leather, forcing them to age prematurely. This man was no different except for the fact that at the end of the week he received a meager salary. Fenris clenched his jaw to keep himself from snarling in disgust.

"Just because it isn't you and your pretty little _shemlen_ children he's after," The elf continued in a voice that rang in an off tune snarl,

Hawke was floundering, glancing back and forth between the elf and the guardsmen as she radiated uncertainty. A sharp twinge of pain made itself present in Fenris' temples as Hawke attempted to laugh the situation off, producing a haughty scoff,

"Have you seen this man?" She started, "Unless his wife is some kind of Tevinter goddess of beauty, I don't think you have to worry about him having "pretty children", shemlen or not,"

This was becoming too painful. Besides the fact that Hawke obviously had no idea what "shemlen" meant, he could see that in her uncertainty she had been pushed into rut. Her personality would make it impossible to do anything but retort in witty remarks until she deemed herself the victor of this paltry quarrel. Fenris didn't know how much longer the meager amount of self control he possessed would allow him to watch these three morons babbling and volleying petty insults, it would quickly get them nowhere if not closer to a migraine for him.

"Would anyone mind if we skipped to the point?" He barked, not caring to mask his strained, exasperated tone,

"Indeed," Hawke replied almost too quickly, she cast Fenris a glance of a thanks to which he rolled his eyes, "The magistrate wasn't exactly the most charitable person when it came to information, would anyone care to shed some light on what the man's crime-"

"He's a mass-murderer," The guardsman drawled,

Finally, something useful from the guardsman's mouth. Fenris knew it would mean this was not just some minute fetch quest, whereas he had expected they would come across a small man, pitiful and mewling his innocence as they dragged him back to Kirkwall, a killer would not go down without a fight, and something in his bones reveled in the idea of battle. If only for a moment, when caught in the throws of a fight, driven by adrenaline, Fenris forgot all of his pain. Even if it lasted no more than thirty seconds, it was good to forget.

"So…" Hawke mused, "What? An accidental killing? He doesn't want to face justice so he runs…simple enough,"

"No Serah," The middle aged elf said darkly, "The man you're after targets children, _elven_ children."

Fenris became increasingly aware of Hawke stiffening as the elf continued to speak. He introduced himself as Elren and dove into the story of his kidnapped daughter, how the man they were after had taken many elven children over the years and not a single investigation had been launched. It was an unnecessary data-dump. Fenris only needed to know two things: what kind of man he was dealing with, and where he was hiding. Movement caught his attention from his peripheral vision. Hawke had balled her hands into fists curling tighter and tighter into themselves until dark trickles of thick, crimson blood oozed from between her fingers. She was trembling, whether it was from the cold or some extremely potent emotion, he did not know. Something had struck home, something was definitely wrong.

"He dragged my daughter into those ruins and _killed her_! I want him dead!"

And so the cycle of Hawke's moods made another sweep around to upset, yet…somehow, this time was different. Fenris shivered, almost sure he could see his breath forming before him in translucent clouds, it as if she had drained the air of what little warmth it clung to. It suddenly became clear to him that this was not one of her mood swings… The hatred radiating from her person was near tangible and frighteningly familiar.

As Elren's tale came to a close, Hawke went into action, not leaving a moment for even breath,

"Then I'll tear his throat out myself,"

Before Fenris could register what had transpired, Hawke had stormed off brashly moving straight for the caves. He quickly fell in step behind her, ignoring the sounds of Anders scrambling after them.

The guardsman's voice sounded in a desperate, self-important cry,

"Hold a moment you!" He cried, snatching Hawke by her arm and pulling her forcefully back to face him.

Fenris had to force himself to hold his ground, his temper having strangely flared as the man seized Hawke; he resisted laying hands on the guard, and demanding he release her.

"You can't just decide to take justice into your own hands!" The guard brayed,

With a disgusted snarl, Hawke tore her arm from the man's grasp, turning a fierce, icy glare upon him. The animosity in her was frighteningly feral, a sharp trill up his spine and into the base of his skull put Fenris on edge. The lyrium throughout his body pulsated and a blue haze at the edge of his vision gave way to the fact that he was glowing. This did not alarm him, as Fenris could not always control it, if emotions became too strong, a feeling got out of hand, or tension became higher than he was comfortable with, he could find himself fazing into lyrium without realizing it; but the _vibrations_ were something he felt only when a mage was searching for a catalyst to cast a spell.

As always, his thoughts went first to his slaver pursuers, assuming they had finally caught up to him. However, the general lack of action in the area made this highly unlikely. Surely the others would be on edge if there were slavers in the area, let alone a mage…

He glanced wearily to Anders, his suspicions immediately dismissed as he realized that the healer was not even paying attention to the situation, busily lost in thought as he stared longingly at Hawke.

_'Pathetic.'_

Another wave up his spine forced Fenris to turn his attention to Hawke. Her glare was hard and unbreaking, thin brows pulled together in enraged … concentration? She looked so fiercely at the wavering guard that Fenris was sure that she were trying to force the man to burst into flames. With a start, a panicked thought flashed across his mind,

_'What if…no…' _He cast it away.

He told himself that it was probably nothing, it_ had_ to be nothing. Fenris dismissed the feeling with the cold, Anders was too distracted by his raging, unchecked hormones to be casting spells and Hawke surely was not the cause. She was not a mage…

"This man needs to be punished for these atrocities!" She roared, "You're the law in this blighted city and you're just sitting out here with your thumbs up your asses while that monster is holed up in these caves! If you're not going to do your job then I will!"

Hawke turned on her heel, her shrieking having startled everyone within earshot, and stormed into the cave, stomping through the mouth without even so much as a wavering thought for what creatures lay in wait for her.

Fenris had to give her credit, though irrational and completely insane, Hawke was braver than anyone he'd met in his years on the run; her sense of justice was unwavering though he realized that at the moment, _justice _may have not been what she intended for this murderer.

They walked on in silence, the ruins lit in an eerie crimson glow from hot coals and small fires burning along both edges of the stone path that twisted on and on for miles. Fenris was grateful for the warmth that had greeted them upon entering the cave, but as they continued to walk, he could feel himself starting to sweat under his armor. He was growing to hate everything about the Free Marches landscapes more and more with each passing moment.

"All right there, Hawke?" Anders inquired warily, breaking the silence after a moment of hesitation

It was clear that the mage was shaken, having been lost in a day dream Anders obviously had no concept of what was going on, only that Hawke's shrieking had very noticeably startled him back into reality. Fenris felt a very smug satisfaction with himself swelling in his chest while the mage nervously trying to piece together what had happened as they moved deeper into the ruins.

By the rant she launched into, it was quite clear that Hawke was indeed_ not_ all right.

"Who do those guards think they are? Letting that man, a _child-killer_ no less, sit in these ruins while they wait for backup! It's a disgrace, for all they know he could have escaped already! If Aveline knew about this something would be done to whip those men into shape!"

Once again, Hawke's naiveté struck a nerve in Fenris, sending a twinge of pain down his spine. True, both the guardsman and the elven father had stressed that the man they were pursuing was dangerous, held up somewhere along the twisting and turning corridors that stretched before them, but a nagging thought tugged at the back of Fenris' mind. They could be walking into a trap…

He needed to make sure that his companions were aware of the potential threat that awaited them, not out of some affectionate attachment to them but if only to make sure they were prepared to defend themselves if the moment came down to it, so that they would not put his own survival in jeopardy; he made his second guessings known.

"You're assuming everything that man told us was true?"

Hawke was quick to respond, but Fenris was relieved enough to see that his comment had shaken her confidence.

"Of course! Well, I mean… yes, I suppose so… maybe not…why would someone lie about something like that?" Her tone had weakened, almost as if she were embarrassed that the thought had not come to her first.

Fenris repressed a snort of condescending bother; she had a lot to learn about the nature of the world.

"In order to win our trust so to lure us into a trap." He retorted flatly,

Hawke merely scoffed,

"What reason could he possibly have to lure us into a trap…?"

Fenris felt suddenly that he were about to scream; he resisted the urge to throw something heavy at her in his frustration. Surely she was kidding, this had to be her attempt as some inconceivably dry humor, a bad joke, the punch line of which was eluding Fenris; Hawke could not be _that_ adolescent.

He did his best to retain a calm presence as he answered.

"Desperation can drive even the most morally sound of people to commit the most depraved acts, there is good coin to be made in bounty hunting," He explained, impatient, "What's the loss of one Ferelden refugee to a native of Kirkwall if they can cash in a wanted slave and known apostate? I'm sure the Knight Commander would pay well for the discovery of an abomination-"

Anders was the one to stop, freezing in his tracks and glaring daggers at Fenris, who continued to follow Hawke. What did he care if he offended the mage?

"I am _not_ an abomination!" Anders warned, his tone a mixture of hurt, anger, and the desperation to prove himself,

Fenris did not even bother to glance back as he rolled his eyes and cast a response over his shoulder,

"The last I checked, willingly subjecting yourself to demonic possession qualifies one as such,"

A rather potent flare of pain shot through Fenris' body, his bones screaming as the lyrium ignited in his veins. The air grew thick and a heavy pressure suddenly hung in the room, a dull blue glow illuminated the walls as Justice made himself present.

"I am no demon!" The spirit roared, reeling on Fenris.

He in turn drew his blade, his body tingling with excite for a battle. He steeled himself, anxious for the mage to make the first move; he would tear Anders apart. After a moment of agonizing tension, they made for each other. Fenris lunged forward, moving to evade the swing of Anders staff all the while preparing to bring his blade up into the mage's side.

Hawke appeared between the two in an instant. Her blade clashed with Fenris', producing sparks as metal raked against metal, her free hand closing down firmly on the staff. The two men were stopped in their tracks, the battle having ended before it was given the chance to begin. She was suddenly a tower of impressive strength, standing as the lone barrier between two forces that could more than certainly destroy her. There was a moment of furious tension as they grappled.

She cast a cold, strangely calm sidelong glance at Fenris. She didn't want to fight him, but she wasn't going to let the elf hurt Anders.

Not wishing to engage Hawke in battle, Fenris broke away, sheathing his blade and stalking down the hall as he muttered various Tevinter curses under his breath. He knew it was for the better that she had intercepted them before they could engage in battle, but Fenris couldn't help but be furious with Hawke. It was just another example of her inane love for—

Another surge of pain across his skull sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body. Did the mage really mean to attack? He whirled to see that Hawke still had her hand on the staff. Something deep inside of Fenris sent fear trilling through his body; someday the magic Hawke valued so much in others would blow up in her face, he knew this, he just couldn't stand to see it happen so soon. His mind was racing, could he reach her in time? Was he willing to take the blow for her? If he did, would she expect him to do so in the future? Would doing so only prove that he had swapped one master for another?

"Justice, _stop_!" Hawke growled,

Too late. The air grew frigid as Anders readied his spell, frost formed quickly on the staff and the hand Hawke still held firmly clamped onto it; Fenris braced himself for what would transpire in a matter of seconds. The oncoming catastrophe never came. Instead, a strange warmth and the sound of all the air being sucked from the room greeted him. An explosive pop broke the air, Hawke released the staff and Anders staggered backwards before collapsing as if she had been the only thing holding him upright. There was a long moment in which no one could say anything. Hawke shook her hand furiously, rubbing her palms together in attempt to drive warmth back into her near-frostbitten fingers. Fenris felt suddenly very numb, the presence of lyrium and magic gone from the hall, the spirit gone, the threat…gone. There was only Hawke standing over Anders as if nothing had just happened. What _had_ just happened?

To both Fenris and Anders' surprise, Hawke began to yell again,

"Well I hope you're happy, just look at what you've done to my hand!"

Anders attempted to demand an explanation of what had just transpired only to be sharply cut off.

"When I said you could come along with us today, I didn't mean _Justice_ could come too. I know there's not much you can do about that, but honestly! If you want people to start taking you seriously, you can't let him take over every time someone badmouths mages. Try practicing what you preach for once,"

Anders stared up at her incredulously, in awe. Fenris could see the gears in the mages' head turning to no avail, as if he were trying to finish a puzzle that was missing several pieces. He started to speak, to ask her a question, but at the last moment decided against it as his mouth hung open yet produced no sound. Finally, Anders managed to stammer an apology.

"H-Hawke… I… I'm so sorry,"

She merely shook her head and waved him off. She didn't want his apology, this was made evident by the way she sheathed her blade and turned away from the mage.

Fenris felt strangely… _proud_ of Hawke. It was almost as if she were finally starting to see the danger magic proved, almost at the cost of her right hand. Perhaps she was not as thick skulled as he had thought.

"Point proven," He announced smugly,

Then, much to his shock, dismay, and outrage, her head snapped up in his direction, her anger renewed and her frigid eyes burning into him with a fiery presence. He had struck a nerve, he knew this instantly, _how_ he had done this was what was beyond him.

"Leave Anders be!" She snarled, advancing on Fenris as she spoke, "I know you're new to the group and all so you may not know this but Justice is a little sensitive. He is a spirit, _not_ a demon and Anders is _not_ an abomination. Contrary to what you may think, not all mages are the same and if you don't start treating my friends with more respect, you and I are going to have a serious problem,"

Any and all pride Fenris had felt towards Hawke in the previous moment vanished in an instant, replaced with a blood boiling fury. Who the hell did she think she was? What right did she have to call him out, question his loyalties, and reprimand him as if she were his master? For quite some time he had been weary of Hawke acting as such, of course he had been the one to offer his services to her, but that did not give her ownership of him. It did not give her the right to reach out and strike him every time he did or said something she did not agree with.

With a sharp pang of stunning realization, Fenris was hit with a thought; she had not laid hands on him. Sure she yelled, she reprimanded, she lectured, but no physical punishment had been taken out on him. Had it been his former Master shouting at him instead of Hawke, he surely would have been beaten within an inch of his life and then denied meals for bleeding on the carpet. That was Danarius, not Hawke. She was not his master, she was an acquaintance, an ally…there was another word for what she was to him, but for the moment it had escaped him.

In the back of his mind, hidden by the blinding anger and the pain of his lyrium induced headache, Fenris knew Hawke meant him no harm, she was merely standing up for the mage. She was his…friend? Yes, that was the word. _Friend_.

He knew she considered him a friend and that in his right mind he should do the same yet he could not keep himself from anger. What right did she have to demand his loyalty to mages? She didn't know his life, what he had been through, what mages had done to him, what they had robbed him of. Her sarcasm was only salt in the wound. Were he not so frozen in the shock of being lectured and not dealt a punishing blow, he may have retaliated sooner.

Hawke rolled her eyes and shouldered past him, stalking off down the hall in continuation of their monotonous march.

Fenris lingered, wallowing in the burn of his ebbing anger and hurt pride for having been chided as if he were no more than a child.

"Fenris," Anders' voice came wearily from behind, once again the anger was back,

Stiffly, reluctantly, he turned his head to acknowledge the mage. Anders was on his feet once more, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Tell me you saw it too…" The healer started, "I'm not just imagining things,"

With an exasperated sigh, Fenris started down the hall after Hawke, his pace deliberately slowed to keep distance between them; he would need some time to cool down before engaging her in conversation once more.

"If you are referring to your grotesque display of abomination-"

"No. Not that… Maker, I'm not crazy, I know it happened, you must have seen it," Anders pressed, his tone desperate yet hushed, seemingly to keep Hawke from overhearing,

"I've no idea what you're talking about, mage…."

The mage's hand shot out, seizing Fenris by the arm and pulling him to a stop. Fenris whirled around, preparing to engage once more, to spit venom and make it known that he felt no love for the man before him. Anders' face darkened, his voice growing cold and hollow,

"_Hawke_. I'm talking about Hawke. She banished Justice, exerted her will over my own and sent him away, there's only one type of person who can do something like that…" His eyes flashed and Fenris suddenly felt an unnerving chill run down his spine.

He knew what Anders was thinking; it was exactly what he was trying _not_ to think about. He had hoped that by not mentioning it, it would just go away, but the mage had brought it into the open. He had seen it too, sensed it. It may have actually happened, and the thought alone scared Fenris. Anders continued to speak, affirming his fears.

"…I think she dispelled my mag-"

The shrill scream of a young girl rang out, slicing through the air and echoing off the walls of the cavern. Forgetting Anders entirely, Fenris' mind went immediately to the man they had been hunting; a murderer of elven children. The voice must have belonged to one of his victims. As suddenly as he had remembered the murderer, he recalled Hawke's reaction to Elren's description of the man's crimes.

He turned in time to see that Hawke had already taken off sprinting, and to see that she was headed directly for…

"Hawke! Wait!" Anders cried,

She stumbled over the trip wire, keeping her balance and eyes widening in horror, as she was fully aware of what was about to transpire. There was no time. Hawke glanced back apologetically but kept moving, rounding the corner and disappearing. Fenris barely had time to blink before the walls and ceiling exploded, the hallway erupting in flames.


End file.
